The Ice Cage — A Scandinavian Crime Thriller set in the Nordic Winter (The Baltic Trilogy)

by Nilsson-Julien, Olivier

  When I turned, I had the biggest fright in my life. There was a man, no, a giant, standing in the dark next to reception. I immediately scrambled back out, but he didn’t follow. There was something wrong, an eerie silence, and I peered in again. He was still standing in the same position. He hadn’t even moved an inch and still wasn’t budging.

  ‘Hello?’

  No reply.

  ‘Who are you?’

  There was still no sign of life, so I climbed back in and walked up to him, expecting him to lash out any second. When I came up to him, I discovered that he was just a concrete statue – a huge one, at least two meters tall and solid-looking at that. Being faceless, his only distinguishing trait was a beard. Even if he was only a statue, he gave me the shivers.

  The museum was a fusion of art, design, folklore and history. Wax figures of ABBA, Hep Stars and Björn Borg mingled with a real JAS Gripen fighter plane, a Husqvarna speedway motorbike with two-inch spikes to race on ice, a Swedish Air Force helicopter, a tracked army SUSV (small unit support vehicle) and a Bofors canon. Karl XII beating Peter the Great at The Battle of Narva cohabited with SAAB cars and Volvo trucks, Carl Larsson paintings, a screening room showing Bergman clips, Pippi Longstocking’s fairy-tale kitchen, Nils Holgersson on his goose…

  Concrete statues identical to the one I’d seen by the reception were scattered throughout the museum. Some right in front of exhibited works, as if contemplating them, others huddled together, conspiring. This was a museum with built-in visitors and they seemed to be a way of encouraging people to reflect on their viewing. They were anonymous co-visitors onto which they could project their feelings, emotional amplifiers as it were.

  The space was so vast that it must have been a military installation originally. And when I say vast I mean it – a Viking ship was moored in a giant boathouse built into the museum; next to it a Swedish stealth cruiser and a Russian submarine with its name in Cyrillic letters. An accompanying video explained how Swedish territorial waters in the Baltic had been terrorised by Russian subs and mini-subs in the 1980s, but Sweden had fiercely resisted the intrusions. It surprised me, I thought that, apart from the Russian Whiskey-class U137 stranded on Swedish rocks, the intruders had been unmasked as a NATO PSYOP operation designed to undermine the alleged pro-Moscow policy of Palme’s social-democratic government. It had been automatically assumed that the subs were Russian, especially as NATO denied any presence. Years later and faced with the suspicion, the U.S. Defence Secretary had admitted to intrusions by US subs, but said they’d only been testing Swedish defences, supposedly in collusion with Palme’s government. More embarrassingly for Sweden, a scientific study had shown that sounds made by seals and otters had also been mistaken for Russian submarines. The nationality of these aquatic intruders was yet to be determined.

  I passed half a dozen mini-subs, ranging from SAS, Navy Seals and Spetsnaz models to a deep-sea cabin and lightweight underwater scooters. The latter were basically handheld fans that looked more like scuba-diving equipment than military gear, but easy to conceal in a bag.

  A large metal cage was hanging above the Russian sub. At first I thought I saw a statue standing inside it, but it was a diving suit with bottles hanging from the top of the cage. I wasn’t quite sure what it was doing there – a shark cage in the Baltic Sea? Were there really that many aggressive sharks in these waters? The cage was connected to a ceiling rail covering the entire museum hall. It was probably a transportation device for carrying objects from ships delivering items for the exhibitions. Although the different sections of the museum hall were separated by panels and exhibited objects, the cage could access all areas from above.

  The exhibition also included photos of world leaders and foreign celebrities visiting Sweden – signs of international recognition. Photos of Swedish world class athletes boasted 17th century gilt frames, putting the athletes on a par with the classical paintings included in the exhibition. There were huge speakers on the walls and I could imagine the museum soundtrack combining jet engines, crowds cheering Carolina Klüft, Ingemar Stenmark, Stefan Edberg or the Swedish ice hockey team, with Abba, Björn ‘Hooked on a feeling’ Skifs and The Cranberries. All this was set against the backdrop of Swedish nature in paintings, photos and films. The museum was a blatant advertisement for Sweden. It surprised me in a ‘national’ institution located in Finland. Admittedly, there was a Finnish wing to the exhibition – offering a more balanced view of an archipelago torn between two countries – but this part was low key and backwards, not to say boring, compared to the Swedish fireworks. It can’t have been a coincidence that the few statues that had made it to the Finnish part all had their backs turned to the art displays.

  It was unfair and irritated me, because Finland is exciting. Unlike Swedes, Finns don’t take themselves so bloody seriously. Swedes are conventional whereas Finns are passionate, extreme and out of control, full of guts and pathos. They’re the Latinos of the North – they tango. They have sisu, a word that defines what Finland is about, a spirit that keeps Finns fighting when most people quit. Finns have the persistence to stand up time after time, not for glory, but out of inner drive and sense of pride. They have a moral urge not to give up. It’s a national mindset. Give me Jari Litmanen in his Ajax years over any Swedish football player – no doubt where the genius is. Swedes are cushy, spoilt and excruciatingly reasonable. In one word: boring. Being the son of a Swedish Finn who’d moved to Åland, I was hoping I’d inherited some of that sisu. I could certainly use it. Swedes were in no position to claim the high ground on anybody, certainly not on their eastern neighbours.

  I was absorbed by the museum that wasn’t a museum. I hadn’t come for a visit – I was here to get a grip on Boeck, but if he was the director, this peculiar collection must reveal something about him. It was a showcase for Sweden and there was even a giant map displaying IKEA shops all around the world, with an up to date showroom. There were photos of Boeck shaking hands with prominent sponsors posing with their latest gifts to the museum. Fictional characters from film and literature gave an additional opportunity for visitors to identify with the exhibition. It was a museum conceived to fascinate people of all ages and backgrounds by playing on nostalgia and collective memory. A dose of mid-visit tragedy added to the national pathos, as separate mourning spaces were dedicated to the assassinations of King Gustav III and Foreign Minister Anna Lindh, public representatives who’d fallen victim to ‘anti-Swedish forces’. There were piles of flowers on the floor accompanied by cards written by mourning Swedes.

  I wasn’t sure if they were authentic or recreated, but I didn’t like the reconstruction of intimate acts of mourning. It was a form of extreme cynicism. Again, a silent crowd of concrete statues was standing by to reinforce the emotion. They were identical but their mood seemed to change depending on what they were contemplating, going from lightness and optimism to deep trauma and consternation.

  Why was Palme excluded? His assassination in 1986 had taken Sweden’s innocence and foreshadowed the ideological meltdown of the late 1980s. Chernobyl – another sign of system failure – had followed only two months after his death. Finland and Sweden had been hit by the radioactive fallout. The longest-serving Finnish president, Uhro Kekkonnen, had died in August of the same year. Like Palme, he’d spent his Cold War life walking a tightrope between NATO and the Soviet Union. They’d been the leaders of my childhood and it was highly unlikely that Palme’s was an accidental omission. This museum milked every emotion to the max and his death had been the national trauma par excellence. If he wasn’t there, it was for a reason. It said something about Boeck, but what? That he disliked Palme? So what? That could be said about half of the Swedish population.

  The Estonia ferry disaster had a memorial room with the names of all the Swedish victims. The combination of highs and lows was gripping and would leave no visitor indifferent. It was a museum curated in the spirit of an end-of-year highlights television show – purely based on images and em
otions, avoiding any form of analysis or rationalisation. It simply flaunted Swedish greatness.

  I was so caught up in the visit that I nearly forgot that I’d come to investigate what was going on behind the scenes. I was wondering how the violence I’d seen at the church fitted in with this. Looking at the museum, it was difficult to imagine Boeck being involved in what I’d seen at the church. I was just thinking that the exhibition was like a giant postcard from Sweden, when I was interrupted by light beams shining into the museum – a car parking outside.

  I hid in the men’s toilet. It was a terrible choice and I almost fainted when I saw a man washing his hands by one of the wash basins, but I’d been fooled again. It wasn’t a man, it was another statue. My heartbeat was in overdrive as I saw a guard heading straight for the toilet. I quickly slipped into a cubicle, convinced that he’d heard me. He hadn’t. He pissed like a horse and I thought he’d never end. I watched through the tiny gap between the door and its frame as he rinsed his bald head with water. He concluded by checking his teeth. For a moment, it looked like he was neighing.

  When I came out there was a strong smell of aftershave, nothing subtle, real horse perfume. I rinsed my face with cold water. It was the first time since I’d arrived on the island that I looked at myself in a mirror. I had bags under my eyes and was in bad need of a shave.

  Leaving the men’s room, I was aware of the omnipresent eyes of the CCTV cameras. It would be difficult to explore the museum unseen, but considering that no one had caught me yet, it was unlikely anyone was watching the security monitors at this time.

  Heading to the back of the museum housing the ‘private’ part, I tried to avoid the eyes of the cameras. I passed the wax work of Karl XII crossing swords with Peter the Great, watched by yet another concrete statue. I did a double-take on the sword. I thought I’d seen a flash of blood on the Swede’s sword, but when I looked again it was gone. It was just me seeing blood everywhere after shooting the guard in the forest.

  I stopped by the JAS fighter jet, which, deprived of movement and space, was nothing but a lifeless design symbolising Swedish neutrality. The production of its own fighter planes and other weapons had been one of the foundations of this policy. The Swedish Air Force was only marginally smaller than its British counterpart, bearing in mind that in spite of the enormous difference in population, Sweden is almost double the size of the UK and next door to the Russian bear. The hitch with this ambitious defence approach was that weapons had to be sold to dubious regimes to pay for the so-called independence and neutrality. Unsurprisingly, investigators had linked Palme’s assassination to the illegal arms trade. My mother always claimed that Swedes were puritan hypocrites presenting themselves as the conscience of the world, while flogging weapons to the highest bidder. Of course, all weapons manufacturers across the world had to sell unethically, but most didn’t pretend to be morally superior while doing it. The Swedish arrogance rubbed people up the wrong way.

  I wasn’t sure what I was hoping to find, but I knew something was wrong. I’d told the police officer about my suspicions and she’d dismissed them. Now I was snooping around to understand the circumstances of my father’s death, be it against my better judgement. Reason told me to catch the next ferry to London, but my guts suggested the situation wasn’t that clear-cut.

  42

  He’d been right about Magnus. The half-blood was more devious than he’d first appeared. He was no fool and the burglary of Henrik’s house to pick up the camera had been clumsy. They should have cleared it out before his arrival, but there had been other priorities. A crew member had wanted to pull out and there could be no resignations at this point. Traitors were executed and their executions incorporated into the project. This specimen had delivered a highly convincing performance. No human lives were wasted and it was all in the name of the cause.

  Fortunately, the museum couldn’t be approached undetected and once inside, it was even harder to escape. In fact, the museum had a fail-proof system that locked down all entry points. He preferred not to use it, partly because it was ugly, but mainly because he enjoyed watching a rat in a cage. If he kept intruders out, he could never play with them. Using the exterior security barrier to keep people in gave him control. He loved impromptu visitors and when security had alerted him about the intrusion he’d jumped on a snowmobile and raced to the museum.

  His right-hand man joined him by the monitor just as Magnus was leaving the toilet. Magnus scrutinised the jet fighter and looked around. He eyed a CCTV camera, but the man was following him from a secret camera positioned on the landing gear of the Swedish Air Force helicopter. The visible cameras were only decoys. When Magnus avoided them, he walked into the field of vision of the real surveillance eyes. It meant that most of the watching was actually done by the people being watched. They didn’t need to be followed – they moved into frame of their own will.

  He should have eliminated Magnus then and there, but he wanted to make sure he hadn’t spoken to anyone. There was also an element of vanity – he wanted to know if Magnus was clever enough to unravel his plan. He was intrigued to find a challenger. Of course, it was stupid and could jeopardise his life’s work, but it was also addictive. Being obeyed and having people killed at the blink of an eye had given him and still gave him a sense of empowerment, but he also felt a growing need for resistance. He needed a measure. Otherwise it was too easy. He was bored with people doing what they were told. It was depressing and the opposite of life. The people in his team lived in fear and didn’t dare to be frank. Being surrounded by yes-men drove him mad. It made him lose his bearings. The only thing that kept him sane was the enemy, the idea of fighting evil and of rescuing Sweden from the dark forces, from communists and impure blood.

  He believed that all interesting people had a self-destructive streak, a death instinct that gave them an inclination to do what they shouldn’t but had to because of an inner conviction. In spite of initial appearances, Magnus was turning out to be one of these people whose determination could outdo plain reason. Was it English bloody-mindedness – Magnus not wanting to do what he was told and having a mind of his own? In any case, it was highly un-Swedish. Most Swedes were bloody sheep.

  He’d always admired the Old England of knights and real men, the total opposite of today’s multicultural poofters. He was disgusted by the invasion of the cockroaches from Asia and the Middle East. King Arthur’s realm had become as weak and soiled as Sweden. In fact, the whole West was under threat.

  He was hoping that Magnus would put up a good fight, that he’d finally found an adversary cast in his mould. He wanted to be tested, confident in the knowledge that he’d be controlling the challenge.

  Bypassing one of the cameras, Magnus slipped into the back of a Scania truck, immediately appearing on one of the monitors. The man behind the monitor was pleased. Everything was going according to plan.

  ‘Welcome to the cast, Magnus.’

  43

  I opened a door at the back of the museum, leading to a corridor with a series of doors. Peering into one of them, I discovered an editing room with state of the art equipment. My first reaction was to wonder why a museum would need cutting-edge facilities, but on second thought it wasn’t that strange – the exhibition contained multimedia installations. And if the authorities supporting the museum were prepared to pay… why not? But what was on these machines? I tried to start one up. It had two large monitors and a big rack that looked like a car grille – probably the memory. The fan made a terrible racket when it came on.

  I eventually managed to get something on the screens, but only found endless files with animal and plant names – fox, otter, birch, moose, lynx, wolf… – and when I opened them that’s what I found. No surprises, except that the photography was amazing, demonstrating exceptional patience, perceptiveness and attention to detail. It made me connect with the animals on a deeper plane. There was something almost metaphysical about their movements, as if each of them embodied al
l living beings. They were deeply engaging, almost touching. Could this be my father’s work? It must be – Thor had told me all the nature magazines wanted his photos. No wonder, I’d never seen anything like these. If they were my father’s, I was impressed. No, I was proud. How come I didn’t have an iota of artistic genes?

  All I could find when I walked deeper into the backstage universe of the museum was more corridors and stairs. Every single door was locked. I decided to give up and return to the main hall, but steel shutters had come down to block my retreat. I was trapped. The bare corridors were the complete opposite of the rather baroque exhibition of the main hall. Here, there were only walls and floors, vertical and horizontal lines, straight lines and never-ending flatness, coldness, with the steel shutters coming down one after the other, in front of me, behind me, making me turn, closing me down and playing me like a rat.

  I’d looked for another way out, but the building was watertight, fire alarm buttons the only decoration. I wasn’t going to escape unless someone let me. I’d lost control and when I pushed the double doors at the end of yet another corridor, I expected to be apprehended by a security guard any moment.

  I looked back through the porthole, but there was no way out. I was completely locked in. Were these automatic security measures or could they be fire doors? I didn’t know what to believe. I banged and kicked the steel shutters as hard as I could, again and again.

  I’d anticipated trouble and thought I was prepared for the worst, but I wasn’t. When the metal curtain opened, I was picked up by two men. They dragged me down a corridor without a word. Their grip was painful, their determination a bad omen. The reasonable option was to wait and see, in the hope that I could talk my way out of this, but I didn’t trust the situation – they were treating me like a convict, a chunk of meat.