Hostage

by Kristina Ohlsson

  Fredrika was curious. Phone tapping and surveillance could take an investigation a long way; she had seen it happen in virtually every case she had been involved in during her time with the police. You just had to work out how everything hung together, which wasn’t always easy.

  ‘What did Zakaria Khelifi say when you asked about his phone contacts?’ she asked. ‘The ones linked to previous investigations?’

  ‘He said the phone belonged to someone else at the time,’ Eden replied. ‘He said he only bought it in February or March 2011.’

  ‘Can you disprove that?’ the Secretary of State asked.

  ‘No, but we don’t need to. He couldn’t tell us exactly when he bought the phone, or who from, or how much he paid. It was obviously something he came up with after the event.’

  ‘I see,’ said the Minister for Justice, who was keen to move on. ‘So, Zakaria Khelifi was acquitted in court. And now you want us to revoke his residence permit?’

  ‘Yes. In view of the facts we have presented here today, we are asking you to revoke Zakaria Khelifi’s permanent residence permit so that he can be taken into custody and sent home to Algeria. He has cropped up in three preliminary investigations and operations, he was named by Ellis during interrogation, and he obviously helped the two perpetrators with their preparations.’

  The Minister for Justice leaned back in his chair.

  ‘Are there any obstacles to implementing this course of action, or is it possible for him to go home?’

  ‘According to the Immigration Court of Appeal, there is no reason why he can’t be deported. The Algerian authorities have not been involved in our work, and they have no reason to seek him out. He is therefore not at risk of torture or the death penalty.’

  The Secretary of State joined in the discussion. ‘And what about the reasons why he was given permission to stay here in the first place?’

  ‘No longer applicable,’ Eden said. ‘The father and brother of his ex-wife died in a road-traffic accident some time ago. We believe that the remaining family members are no longer interested in punishing him.’

  Fredrika didn’t say a word. This was a whole new world to her.

  ‘How does this guy make a living?’ the Minister wanted to know.

  ‘He’s worked as a youth leader.’

  Fredrika remembered how he had been portrayed in the media: the nice guy who worked with young people and had difficulty finding a way into Swedish society. Zakaria Khelifi had learned to speak fluent Swedish, and was in many ways an excellent role model. A youth leader who was helping terrorists at the same time. Fredrika found it difficult to reconcile these two contradictory images.

  The legs of the Minister’s chair scraped against the parquet floor as he moved.

  ‘And what is this going to look like in the media?’ he said. ‘Zakaria Khelifi has just been acquitted on two separate counts in court, and yet both Säpo and the government decide to send him home.’

  ‘What’s the alternative?’ Eden asked. ‘Let him stay here? Keep him under surveillance? Risk a situation where he becomes an icon for young people in the suburbs with an immigrant background? An icon who could inspire others to join the armed struggle? We can do that, of course. But in that case, both the government and Säpo will be guilty of dereliction of duty, because it is our responsibility to ensure that those who could constitute a security threat do not have the opportunity to establish themselves in this country.’

  She shook her head and continued: ‘We can’t risk that kind of domino effect; we have to be clear and make an example of Khelifi. And even if the odd journalist writes a negative article, the message to those who seek to join people like Zakaria Khelifi will be crystal clear: you don’t fuck with Swedish democracy.’

  The Minister for Justice appeared to be deep in thought, and Fredrika wondered what Eden’s background was. Her rhetoric was not Swedish, and it looked as if her head of department was embarrassed by the way she had spoken.

  Nobody said anything, and suddenly a brief ringtone sliced through the silence.

  ‘Sorry, I forgot to switch it off,’ Eden said, taking her mobile out of her pocket.

  Eden’s colleagues were staring at her. Everyone was expected to turn off their phone.

  But Eden didn’t seem to care what anyone thought. Her attention was focused on the phone in her hand; she read the message she had just received, then said:

  ‘Apparently, there have been a number of bomb threats against targets in Stockholm. One of those targets is Rosenbad.’

  Less than a minute later, the meeting was over, and Säpo had disappeared from the room as if by magic.

  5

  13:35

  There was a time when Alex Recht had wanted nothing more than a post within Säpo. But many felt they were called and few were chosen. Year after year, Alex waited for the magical phone call that would change his life, the voice that would say he was wanted and welcome, that he was one of those who would be allowed through the portals.

  Eventually, they did call. It was a Sunday, and Alex and Lena were busy repainting the fence. They called, and even though they didn’t say who they were, Alex knew. He was given a time and place for a meeting. He arrived five minutes late and informed them that he wasn’t interested. By that time, he had got to know several people who worked within the organisation, and he thought they looked bored to death by the whole thing. He didn’t actually say that during the meeting, but talked about how much he was enjoying his present post, and how much he wanted to remain in what was referred to as the open side of the police.

  ‘Well, you can always go back,’ said the Säpo representative.

  But Alex wasn’t so sure about that. If he started working for Säpo, there was a risk that he would stay there. And the idea didn’t appeal to him one little bit.

  Once you had rejected Säpo, they never came back. Not that he was waiting for it to happen, but as the years went by and Alex gained a reputation as one of Sweden’s leading investigators, he thought they would contact him again. They didn’t. Perhaps they sensed that he still wasn’t interested.

  Alex was sitting quietly in his office, thinking hard. Four bomb threats against different targets in inner-city Stockholm. First of all, someone had phoned and said the target was the Royal Library in Humlegården. Then another call came in, this time about the Central Station. Then the Åhlén’s department store. And finally, Rosenbad, the government building, which meant that Säpo were automatically drawn in. According to Alex’s boss, they would be in touch with him as soon as they had completed their own assessment.

  The situation required an immediate response. Alex felt instinctively that the whole thing was nothing more than a hoax; someone was bored and had decided to make false bomb threats in order to cause havoc. At the same time, they had to be careful. Sweden couldn’t cope with any more acts of terrorism, and it certainly couldn’t cope with any mistakes on the part of the police.

  According to the caller, the first bomb would explode at five o’clock that afternoon, the next at five fifteen, the third at five thirty and the fourth at five forty-five. It wasn’t clear which target would be attacked first, and no reason was given for the threat.

  The only thing they knew for certain was that at five o’clock in the afternoon all the targeted locations would be crowded with people.

  They had tried to trace the calls, but they had all been made using unregistered pay-as-you-go SIM cards and different mobile phones. The person who called had used some kind of voice distortion, which made Alex raise his eyebrows; it was very unusual, almost ridiculous really. He hadn’t heard such rubbish since the eighties.

  He was sure that the same person had made all four calls, even though they had come from different phones, but just to be on the safe side, he requested a rapid analysis of the mast links to see where the calls had been made. They had come in at intervals of less than three minutes, so it ought to be possible to tell if it was the same person who had made all
four calls.

  The phone on Alex’s desk rang; he picked it up and heard a husky female voice.

  ‘Eden Lundell from Säpo; I’m calling about the bomb threats. I got your name and number from Hjärpe.’

  Hjärpe was Alex’s boss. If he had been informed, then everything was as it should be. It sounded as if Eden Lundell was outdoors, because the line was crackling.

  ‘I was expecting to hear from you,’ Alex said. ‘How can I help?’

  Säpo, so near and yet so far. Their offices were inside police HQ, and yet they were a world of their own.

  ‘We need to meet. Can you come over to us?’

  Alex couldn’t recall ever having worked with Säpo in this way. Of course he knew that they had collaborated with the police on major incidents, such as the murder of Anna Lindh, the Foreign Secretary, outside the NK department store, but he had never been involved.

  He told Eden Lundell he was on his way.

  ‘Great, I’ll come down and meet you.’

  ‘I’ll be there in five minutes.’

  ‘Make it ten. I’m just on my way back from a meeting at Rosenbad.’

  It just wasn’t acceptable for someone to make a bomb threat against Rosenbad on the day before parliament gathered to debate the issues surrounding immigration and integration. Particularly as it was less than an hour since Eden Lundell had sat there and personally assured Sweden’s Minister for Justice that there was no need for increased security during the debate.

  ‘It’s not necessarily anything serious,’ the head of analysis said when Eden caught up with him by the lifts as she was on her way down to collect Alex Recht.

  She had dashed into her office and dropped off her handbag when she got back from the meeting at the Justice Department. From a suspected terrorist to suspected bomb threats. The world was not an attractive place for someone who had Eden’s job.

  ‘Can we take the risk?’

  Sebastian looked unhappy. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, we can’t.’

  Eden pushed the lift call button impatiently. ‘There’s going to be hell to pay when we evacuate both the Central Station and Rosenbad.’

  Sebastian nodded in agreement. ‘But nobody will thank us if we don’t bother, and let everyone die instead.’

  Eden laughed. ‘You’re not wrong there.’ Her expression grew serious. As the lift doors slid open, she turned to Sebastian. ‘Why Rosenbad? I mean, the debate is taking place elsewhere, in the parliament building. And it’s tomorrow, not today.’

  ‘Because this isn’t about the debate.’

  ‘So what is it about?’

  ‘I have no idea. Maybe somebody was bored. Maybe they just want to test the system.’

  Eden stepped into the lift and held the doors to stop them closing. ‘By the way, Alex Recht – do you know anything about him?’

  ‘He’s like you.’

  ‘A woman?’

  ‘A legend.’

  Eden allowed the doors to close.

  It was Fredrika Bergman’s job to assess the political grounds for deporting Zakaria Khelifi. In plain language, this meant making sure that it wasn’t a repeat of the Egyptian fiasco. How she was supposed to achieve this wasn’t at all clear, but if she failed, many heads would roll. She couldn’t stop thinking about the bomb threats Eden had mentioned before the meeting broke up so abruptly. She wondered whether Alex was working on them.

  Not that it mattered. She and Alex were no longer colleagues; she had other duties.

  With her head in her hands, she sat and read through Zakaria Khelifi’s application for asylum.

  He had met the love of his life in the spring of 2006. She wasn’t from the family into which his father thought he ought to marry, but his father decided to allow the marriage to take place. According to Zakaria, he had given them his blessing and wished them every happiness.

  So far, so good. To begin with, the girl’s parents had also been favourably disposed towards the young couple’s romance. Zakaria came from a decent family, he had studied at university for several years, and he expected to get a good job. His girlfriend was also university-educated. They were both intending to carry on working after they got married. The girl had asked her mother if she would help out with taking care of any possible grandchildren in the future, and her mother had agreed.

  But as so often in the past, there was no happy ending to this particular fairy tale. Suddenly the girl’s father decided that he wanted his daughter to marry the son of a business acquaintance instead. At the very least he insisted she should take a break from her relationship with Zakaria and give this new man a chance. The girl refused, which led to violent family quarrels. According to Zakaria, the young couple eventually ran away and settled in a different part of the country, where they found it difficult to find work and to make ends meet.

  At this point the girl discovered she was pregnant. Zakaria Khelifi had told the Immigration Board they were both happy about the child, but at the same time they were afraid that people would find out they had started a family before they were married. Therefore, they got married very quickly. Unfortunately, somehow the rumour that the girl had got pregnant while she was still single reached the ears of her parents. That was the beginning of a nightmare that ended when Zakaria’s wife died in a car accident halfway through her pregnancy.

  Zakaria Khelifi claimed that his wife’s eldest brother called him and told him that the car accident had been arranged, and that they would deal with Zakaria too as soon as the opportunity arose. So-called honour killings were not uncommon in many places around the world, including Algeria on occasion. Zakaria left the country a week or so later.

  And now, just a few years down the line, he had ended up in the middle of Säpo’s latest terrorist investigation, and they wanted him deported – in spite of the fact that he had a legally binding judgement granting him permanent residence in Sweden. He also had a steady job and a girlfriend. The state had far-reaching powers when it came to handling threats against national security.

  Fredrika tried not to feel uneasy. Deporting someone who had previously been deemed to have grounds for asylum was a serious measure, with radical consequences for the individual. Surely, Säpo would exercise extreme caution when taking such a step? The statistics supported this view; cases like that of Zakaria Khelifi were exceptionally rare.

  At the same time, it was impossible to ignore the context that had given rise to this particular case.

  Over the past decade, the fear of international terrorism had become overwhelming. And that fear gave legitimacy to counter-measures which would otherwise have been less clear-cut. How could you make sure that no innocent party got caught in the crossfire? You had to have the courage to ask such questions, even if they had been asked many times before. The authorities always faced the dilemma of possibly punishing innocent people, irrespective of the type of criminal behaviour involved. But when it came to terrorism, the issue became even more important. The consequences of making the wrong call could be catastrophic.

  She had been fascinated by Säpo’s presentation. Very little of the content or delivery had surprised her; since she started working for the police, she had often thought that Säpo’s reputation for drama was undeserved. Perhaps it was their own fault. In spite of the fact that there had been a stated policy of transparency for several years, at times, Fredrika still couldn’t see why they didn’t do more to explain their actions.

  One of her colleagues knocked on the door. ‘The phones are red hot.’

  ‘Because of the bomb threats?’

  ‘Yes. They want to know if they government is taking the threats seriously, and if there’s a link to the recent terrorism convictions. Or to tomorrow’s parliamentary debate.’

  Fredrika sincerely hoped not.

  And yet she could see it all so clearly. How one problem led to another, like concentric ripples spreading out across the water.

  If this was the start of something new, there was good reason to wonder how i
t would end.

  6

  14:01

  They gathered in one of Säpo’s conference rooms. Eden Lundell chaired the meeting, which included investigators, analysts and Alex Recht from the police. Alex reported on the results of his own brief inquiries: four unregistered pay-as-you-go SIM cards. The same person had probably made all four calls, but that was all they knew at the moment.

  ‘When will you find out where the calls came from?’ Eden asked.

  The case of Zakaria Khelifi was already long gone. The here and now was what mattered; four bomb threats, four potential targets.

  ‘Within the next few hours,’ Alex replied.

  The situation was critical. Decisions had to be made immediately. If they were taking the threats seriously, they had to act soon.

  Eden had taken an immediate liking to Alex, which was very unusual for her. She was normally very cautious about opening up to people she didn’t know, but it was different with Alex Recht. Sebastian had said he was like her; perhaps there was some truth in that.

  ‘What steps would you want to take?’ Eden asked Alex. ‘Setting aside the threat to Rosenbad, how would you handle this?’

  Alex frowned. That was another thing Eden liked about him; he thought before he spoke, in spite of the urgency of the situation. Panicking rarely helped, and it annoyed Eden that so few people she had met during her career understood such a simple premise.

  ‘I don’t like the fact that the threats mentioned specific times. Nor do I like the fact that they came in through four separate phone calls, and that voice distortion was used. And I don’t understand why someone would go for targets as diverse as the Royal Library and Åhlén’s department store.’

  ‘So what’s your conclusion?’ Sebastian asked.

  Alex looked at him. ‘That we need to evacuate all the locations immediately, and if nothing happens, we simply lift the restrictions.’

  ‘I agree,’ Eden said.

  She gestured towards one of her colleagues. ‘Do it – evacuate all four locations. Try to handle it discreetly.’