Project Nirvana

by Stefan Tegenfalk

  Marie went quiet.

  “No suggestions about whom we can ask?” Walter continued, taking out a small notepad.

  Marie thought briefly. “I know that he was Sonia Rikinski’s punter for a while,” she said, “but that was before Neopol and I had met each other,” she added, and smiled fondly at her grey-haired partner.

  “Do you mean Ricki?”

  “Yeah, I think she liked him.”

  “Why? Did he pay well?”

  “How the fuck should I know? Maybe for his charm.”

  Walter sighed. “And where does one get hold of Ricki nowadays?”

  “The last I heard, she was living in Hallonbergen. Me and Paunchy were there once and picked up some cash she owed him.”

  Walter made a note in his notepad. “No other suggestions?”

  Marie shrugged her shoulders. “Why would I know? I’m not his fucking mum.”

  “No more ideas? Anything else you might remember about him?”

  She shook her head. “No, I can’t think of anything else.”

  Walter closed his notepad and stood up. “I promise I won’t bother you any more,” he said. “At least, as long as you stay off the drugs. However, your partner is going to have a rough ride with the Inland Revenue from now on. But that’s nothing I can do anything about, unfortunately.”

  Neopol Isaksson glared angrily at Walter.

  “Let’s see if Ricki is home,” Walter suggested, as they walked towards the car.

  “Who’s Ricki?” Jonna asked, while watching some small boys shooting at each other with toy guns.

  “A tart.”

  “You mean, a prostitute,” Jonna corrected him.

  “She’s a woman who performs sexual acts for money. The world’s oldest profession, as our resident expert Cederberg likes to call it.”

  “Most prostitutes don’t choose that lifestyle voluntarily,” Jonna replied acidly, and opened the car door. “In fact, I think one should show these women a little respect because they are victims themselves.”

  “I’ve never violated the human rights of any prostitute,” he answered and started the car. “My choice of words was just old-fashioned slang, which is difficult to drop after so many years on the force. Old dogs and new tricks, et cetera. They have my fullest sympathy, perhaps even my empathy. But, victim or not, there are always choices in every situation.”

  “Like becoming a prostitute?” Jonna asked.

  “Prostitute, drug addict, ordinary villain or fraudulent bank director. We all have a choice. Even if we’re born with different possibilities, we still have responsibility for our own lives. Look at me. A red-blooded bolshevik in my head, yet still I work for the Establishment.”

  Jonna decided not to pursue the discussion further. Given the age of this old dog, it would be a tough argument to win.

  After a short call to Jonsson, Walter was able to tap Sonia Rikinski’s address into his iPhone.

  “The SWAT team will meet us outside,” he said. “If Hedman is close by, it could get bloody messy. He has an itchy trigger finger and loves handguns with full magazines.”

  Jonna nodded and felt her pulse quicken.

  Chapter 4

  Tor Hedman paid the taxi driver and climbed out of the car. He had a headache from the Latin-American driver’s constant jabbering. Since they had left T-Centralen station, the guy had run through a list of mankind’s problems, and how they should be solved. In addition, Tor now knew as much about the dago’s family as he did. Tor had his own problems and couldn’t give a shit if the world was consumed by greenhouse gases or if Taco Bell’s kid had scored a goal in some Tiny Tots football match. He shook off these trivial thoughts and focused on the building that was the destination of his journey.

  The old, dark red farmhouse stood a small distance into the forest. He had been there many times. The old codger was a sure bet for fixing unregistered shooters. There were rumours that even cops bought guns from him. He could get his hands on almost any weapon except bazookas and howitzers. Otherwise, he had it all.

  Tor walked towards the house. As soon he came to the iron gate, two barking Rottweilers sprang out of a kennel. Fortunately, they were chained to the side of the house and could not reach the gravel path.

  The dogs seemed eager to say hello to Tor. Or more likely, to tear big chunks out of him. He walked up the gravel path, praying that the chains would hold. Tor hated dogs. Almost as much as he hated stupid sluts.

  Before he reached the front door, it opened with a creak.

  “Yes?” an elderly man croaked, putting on a pair of thick glasses. He was wearing light grey, corduroy trousers and a striped shirt.

  “Wossup?” Tor greeted him and went towards the steps.

  The old geezer examined Tor silently for a few seconds. “What do you want?” he asked as he recognized Tor.

  “I need some shooters,” Tor answered, continuing up the stone steps.

  The old man waved Tor inside the house and shouted at the dogs to shut the fuck up. He closed the front door and locked it. In the kitchen, he waved Tor to sit in the kitchen settle and sat down opposite him. He lit a pipe, sucking loudly while he inhaled the smoke. Tor had two cigarettes left and did not want to be left out. Soon the kitchen filled with tobacco smoke.

  “What type of shooter?” the old codger began, coughing up phlegm.

  Tor considered which weapons would be the most suitable purchases. They had to be easy to re-sell as well. He would stick with his original plan. “Some Colt Combat Commanders,” he said, tapping ash into a white paper cup.

  The old man removed his glasses and stared at Tor with small, lively, piggy eyes. “How many?”

  Tor wondered if he should place the signet ring on the table and spill the beans, or if he should discuss payment later. The problem was that the old codger always wanted twenty per cent up front and the rest on delivery. Tor did not have the twenty per cent. He was forced to spill the beans. “How many can I get for this?” He put Omar’s signet ring on the kitchen table.

  The old geezer looked suspiciously at the object that Tor had placed on the table. “What’s that thing?” he said, taking his pipe out of his mouth.

  Tor took a deep drag and exhaled smoke through his nostrils. “A ring,” he said. ”It’s worth at least eighty grand.”

  The old codger picked up the ring and examined it. “So sell it then,” he said, and put it back on the table.

  Tor put out his cigarette in the paper cup. “That’s exactly what I am doing now.”

  “No cash, no shooter,” the old man said, putting his pipe back in his mouth.

  Tor looked hard at the old geezer. He was getting irritated by the bloody pipe that he constantly sucked while he sat. “You can buy it from me cheap,” Tor suggested.

  “Not interested,” the old codger replied drily.

  “Give me four Colt Combat Commanders and you have a deal,” Tor tried.

  “Your hearing gone bad?” the old man wheezed. “No cash, no shooter.”

  “Look, you can keep the ring as security until I have fixed up the cash,” Tor said, holding up the ring in his hand. “We’ve done deals before . . .”

  “No deal,” the old man said firmly and stood up. He indicated that it was time for Tor to leave.

  Tor stifled an impulse to jump all over the old codger. He could easily break his neck, but that would hardly help him. The old geezer didn’t even have a butter knife at his house. Everything was hidden in a secret stash. Tor scratched his head and beads of sweat formed on his brow. Things were starting to look really fucked up. No cash, no weapon and nowhere to run. The Hut and the stupid slut had screwed up everything. And now this fucking old geezer. If Tor rammed his pipe down the old man’s throat, perhaps he would become more accommodating. Or perhaps not. He wa
s a hard bastard. The type that would rather croak for a principle. He would tell Tor to go to hell and spit in Tor’s face before his lights went out.

  The old man watched Tor through the window as he walked down the gravel path towards the road. His eyes burned into Tor’s back and Tor wondered if the old codger would rat on him. To the Albanians maybe. A while ago, he had climbed out of the taxi with the hope of getting back in the game. Now that hope was dashed and he was instead filled with despondency. It was as if every fucker was turning against him. He wished that Jerry was still alive.

  Three kilometres from the old geezer’s house was the old Dalarö tugboat-pilot station that was now a tourist lodge. Tor intended to stay the night in one of the single rooms and mull over his precarious situation accompanied only by the sound of the Baltic waves. Unless the ice still lay frozen.

  His cash would pay for two nights, but he also needed something to eat. Perhaps a few beers in solitude too, or even better, a joint to get high. He had quit the latter, but at this moment he was dying to light up a joint and escape all his shit for a while.

  Three years ago, he had lived in the small tourist lodge, just before he and Jerry did their last stretch in the nick. He and Jerry had roughed up a guy in Tungelsta because he had owed a car dealer money. They had later acquired a police escort just past Haninge and had taken refuge at the tiny tourist lodge. For safety’s sake, they had laid low there for three days. Tor used to go down to the water’s edge and watch the sun glittering on the waves in the water before it disappeared below the horizon. There was something special about sunsets over the water that made his thoughts follow unfamiliar paths.

  He sometimes imagined what it would have been like if he had never started the shoplifting and breaking into cars. Or taking drugs. Would he have lived a completely normal life with a family now? What would he have worked as, and who would his friends be? Perhaps he’d be walking around in a suit like an executive somewhere. Perhaps with a few kids. He would’ve raised them to not stay out at nights like he had. But what was the point of dwelling on what he couldn’t change? The only thing he was sure about was that in less than six months he’d gone from being on his way to the top to being out of cash and hunted by pretty much every bastard he knew. A creeping desperation began to slowly spread under his skin. He needed a hideaway. A place with peace and quiet so that he could forget this shit and relax.

  An hour later, he walked through the door to the tourist lodge.

  Leo Brageler’s body shook from the cold, which was becoming more intense than the pain. The Mentor signalled Martin to prop Leo up against the wall so that he could see the eyes of his interrogation subject.

  “Shall we continue?” he asked.

  Leo slowly nodded his head. “Afterwards, the grief, hatred and rage took control of me,” he whispered. “I was consumed with rage against those who were to blame for the deaths of Anna and Cecilia.” He caught his breath.

  “You mean the members of the court that allowed Sonny Magnusson to continue to drink and drive?”

  Leo nodded.

  “I understand,” the old man said; something resembling pity appeared in his weary eyes.

  “I wanted them to feel the same loss and grief that I felt. To experience the loneliness and that bottomless emptiness.” Leo’s breathing was more laboured.

  “Rest now,” the old man said sympathetically, and slapped his knees.

  “I wanted more than just that,” Leo continued after a brief pause. His voice was steadier now. “I wanted to go further. They had to know what it felt like to kill their loved ones. To bear not only the grief, but also the guilt.”

  The old man listened intently. “Did that give you the right to kill innocent bystanders?”

  A brief pause. “I believed so.”

  “But not now?”

  Leo shook his head and sank to the floor.

  “You still haven’t given me an answer.” The old man held up his hands in exasperation.

  “What drove me was the satisfaction of seeing the guilty suffer as I did. Tossed into a pit of despair, which they had dug themselves. To be responsible unintentionally for the death of someone you love is the worst pain you can experience. In my ignorance, I believed that vengeance would heal my shattered world. I wanted to fill them with the same sense of loss. Perhaps I also hoped that . . .”

  “Did you have help?” the old man interrupted.

  Leo nodded.

  “Who helped you?”

  “Some others in the field of biogenetic DNA research – spread around the world.”

  “Do they have access to the drug now?” Martin instantly blurted out.

  The old man glared at Martin, irritatedly.

  “No,” Leo replied. “I lied about the research. They worked only with fragments, bits of the whole project. I alone had the total overview. As a reward, their names would be included in the research report, something scientists view as a sign of success. Without the internet, it would have been impossible to do.”

  The old man nodded in admiration. “Very smart,” he said and laughed. “You would have done well in our line of work.”

  “As I understand it, you’ve developed something quite extraordinary,” the old man continued. “How did you manage to do it? You can’t have managed to develop the theory just from a sheet of paper and an idea?” The old man was shrewd. They probably already knew about his work with the Germans.

  “I developed the compound from an already existing substrate. I assume you already know about Dysencomp.”

  The old man nodded again.

  “We have been very meticulous in our investigations about you.”

  “With parts of the substrate we developed for the Germans, it was relatively simple to create a compound with the characteristics that I was looking for. Certainly, it took thousands of development man-hours, but the basic building blocks were already in existence.” Leo was finding it increasingly difficult to breathe. He was shaking from the cold that was permeating every part of his body.

  “What type of compound is it?”

  Leo did not hear the question. The old man began to fade slowly into the room. Sounds and voices echoed off the walls. Suddenly, everything went black.

  “Quickly,” the Mentor ordered. “Get him conscious again.”

  The man from Dignitary Protection quickly produced smelling salts. He opened the bottle and pushed it under Leo’s nose while holding a hand over his mouth. Leo twitched a few times, but remained unconscious. The bodyguard tried to shake some life into him, but was unsuccessful.

  “We are losing him,” he said, with an anxious look in his eyes.

  Mjasník parked the hire car so that he had a good view of the main entrance farther down the street. Sooner or later, the flat owner would come home. Mjasník also had a view of the windows over the entrance staircase. He had already found out that the man lived at the top of the four-storey building. He only had to wait for the lights in the flat to come on to get a look at the detective’s face.

  The other two policemen had secret identities. They worked for the Security Service, which apparently was not covered by the Swedish Freedom of Information Act. Therefore, his only lead was the old detective inspector. Mjasník needed to find out the type of car he drove, the mobile phone number he used and his daily routine.

  According to the journalist, the detective inspector was leading the hunt for Leo Brageler. He, if anyone, could lead Mjasník to his target.

  Walter took the exit towards Solna from the Essingeleden motorway. Ten minutes later, they met up with the SWAT team, which was waiting about three hundred metres away from Sonia Rikinski’s home in Hallonbergen.

  Jonna felt her heart pounding with excitement as they advanced up the staircase of the large, concrete building. The smell of urine permeated the stairs an
d the walls were covered in various graffiti tags. In front of her were three SWAT officers and Walter. The five other SWAT policemen were deployed to block any escape routes. Walter was breathing heavily and, with each step, was finding it increasingly difficult to keep up with the others’ pace. Taking the lift was forbidden in these operations.

  “Out of breath?” a SWAT officer asked.

  Walter did not answer; instead he dried the sweat on his brow. He signalled to the SWAT leader to get ready to force an entry.

  “Are you sure?” the team leader queried, seeing Walter’s chest rapidly rising and falling.

  “Yes!” Walter muttered, irritatedly. He rang the doorbell. The police quickly took up their positions in the stairwell. After a short wait, the door opened.

  “Hello Ricki,” Walter blurted out between gasps.

  A middle-aged woman with heavy make-up stared at him in surprise. One side of her face was swollen and bluish-purple. “What do you want?” she asked through gritted teeth.

  “Are you by yourself?”

  The woman looked at the SWAT team in the stairwell. “Yes.”

  “Then we’ll come in and have a look around.” Walter pushed past Ricki into the hallway with his weapon drawn.

  Two policemen quickly advanced and flanked him on either side. They continued into the flat with weapons raised. Together with a third SWAT officer, they searched the flat.

  Jonna also had her gun at the ready, but was a few paces behind Walter. Her rapid pulse throbbed in her temple as she looked inside some cupboards in the hallway.

  When they had finished searching the flat, the SWAT-team leader declared that it was safe. Walter thanked them for their assistance and told them to stand down.

  “Didn’t you hear me say I was alone?” Ricki growled.

  “I want Headcase,” Walter said and sat down in the sofa. “You wouldn’t know where he is, would you?”

  Defiantly, Ricki shook her head. “Is that why you are here?”

  “I heard that you and he were an item. Are you still on the game?”