Project Nirvana

by Stefan Tegenfalk

  “Did you by any chance see what the man was doing before he took the cash?”

  “Do you know who the guy is?”

  “Not yet,” Walter lied. “Please answer the question.”

  “Well,” she said, thinking. “He was talking on his mobile, I think. Other than that, he just drank some coffee.”

  “Did he talk for a long time on the phone?” Jonna asked.

  “Dunno.” She shrugged her shoulders.

  “How long was he here?” Jonna continued.

  “Perhaps an hour.”

  “There’s nothing else you can remember?”

  The woman thought for a while.

  “Nope. He was just like any other customer.”

  “Has Forensics located the coffee mug?” Jonna asked, looking at Walter.

  “Of course, they are already testing it for fingerprints and DNA,” Walter said, patiently.

  “What about the witness who saw Tor running away? Where do we find him?”

  “We can give him a miss for the time being,” said Walter, finishing his cup of coffee. “His statement is already taken and it’s not critical. Let’s see what the streets can tell us instead.”

  “The streets?”

  Walter went over to the door. “Are you coming?”

  There was very little traffic as Walter and Jonna walked out onto Götgatan. The occasional car passed by, spraying slush from its tyres. They walked the same route that Hedman had taken a few hours earlier and found a taxi parked in approximately the same spot where the witness had seen Hedman hop into a taxi. Walter tapped on the taxi window and a swarthy man in a leather jacket rolled down the window.

  “Police,” said Walter, showing his ID. “We want to ask you some questions.”

  The man looked suspiciously at Walter. “What sort of questions?”

  “Do you normally park here?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Did you pick up a tall man in his fifties about two hours ago?”

  The man glanced from Jonna to Walter. He shook his head.

  “Are you are completely certain about that?” Jonna persisted.

  “Sure, I am,” said the man. “I was at Arlanda airport then. Why are you asking me?”

  “Do you know anyone else who parks around this spot at night?” asked Walter. “There are lots of pubs around here, so I suppose there are plenty of fares.”

  The man shrugged. “There might be a few.”

  “Who are they?” Jonna asked.

  “There’s a Balkan guy and a few Tunisians.”

  “Touts?”

  The man nodded.

  “Do you know their names?” Jonna was insistent. The cold and questioning the man had woken her up.

  “Why do you want to know?” The man’s voice was suspicious.

  “The taxi driver that picked up the man we’re looking for could be in danger,” Jonna lied.

  The man studied Jonna carefully for a while. “Pavle is from Serbia,” he said finally. “Then there are the Yahia brothers. I don’t know them very well.”

  “The four of you are usually here at night?” said Walter.

  “Mostly.”

  “Do you have numbers for Pavle and the Yahia brothers?” Jonna asked.

  Although he was not amused, the man smiled, exposing two black gaps in his yellowish-brown teeth. “I said that I didn’t know them well,” he said, “but that shouldn’t be a problem for the police.”

  Walter thanked the taxi driver and took out his mobile phone. He called the Surveillance Unit to get the mobile phone numbers of the three unlicensed taxis and waited impatiently on the line. After a short while, Walter got the number for one of the Yahia brothers and Jonna located Pavle Jemerić. Neither of them had picked up a fare from Götgatan in the past two hours.

  The second brother was unreachable. His brother said he might be taking a short nap and would have turned his mobile off. He was probably at the layby for taxis at Arlanda. Some loaded charter flights were due to land soon and there would be a feeding frenzy for taxis on the night shift.

  Walter broadcast a APB for the brother’s taxi as he sat behind the wheel of his car. “Let’s take a chance that he’s at Arlanda,” he said. “Keep trying to call him.”

  Jonna set her mobile phone to redial every five minutes. After the seventh redial, the phone finally rang.

  Chapter 6

  Paralyzed, Tor Hedman sat petrified in his bed, surrounded by darkness and a solid silence. The only sound he could hear was his own breathing. Someone could have seen him and phoned it in and now the cops were getting ready to storm the caravan. Or was it crackheads who were breaking into the caravans?

  Naked and wrapped in a dog’s blanket, without any weapons or a fully functional right hand, he certainly did not want to meet any crazy speed junkies.

  Despite the fact that Tor moved carefully, the bed springs creaked. He grimaced at each sound and from the pain in his hand, which was getting worse by the hour. When he put his feet on the floor and stood up, he heard a crackling sound. It was not possible to tell whether it came from inside or outside the caravan. Tor sneaked to the window, where he thought the scraping sound came from.

  Gently, he pulled back the curtain. At first, he could see nothing, but, after scanning the darkness, he spotted a tiny, orange glow. He focused on it and recognized immediately what it was. There was someone standing there, smoking. That meant that there were people inside the perimeter fence. Tor watched the light suddenly go out. The figure had finished the cigarette and was now on its way out of the shadows, walking towards Tor. The contours of a powerful body materialized in the light and he could soon see that it was a guard. A heavily built, female security guard. Her hair was long and tied in a ponytail and she had a broad stride as she walked.

  Tor moved back from the window as the sound of the guard’s heavy, grating footsteps came closer. He quickly looked around in the dark for something to defend himself with. All he had was the blanket wrapped around his naked body.

  If she entered the caravan, he would throw the blanket over her head and then overpower her with kicks and blows to the head. The element of surprise was crucial. If she was one of those Mixed Martial Arts attack-dykes, he would meet stiff resistance. He knew the type. They were man-haters and she would not hesitate to bury his gonads in his groin if he gave her the chance.

  The sound of her footsteps came closer. She was right outside the door when they suddenly stopped. Naked, Tor stood with his back pressed against the wall, ready to throw himself at the security guard.

  Waiting for the door to open, he listened to the deafening silence. Every muscle was tensed to breaking point and he was shaking from equal amounts of adrenaline and cold.

  After a while, the crackling sound started again. He had heard that sound before. Now he understood what it was.

  A walkie-talkie came to life and the security guard mumbled something in reply. Tor could not hear what she said. She continued walking towards the entrance and the sound of her footsteps faded. Tor moved to the window over the bench and saw the guard disappear behind a caravan. He wondered if she had seen the carrier bag of tools and was now trying to fool him. Perhaps she had already raised the alarm. If that were the case, the riot squad would soon arrive with dogs and automatic weapons at the ready.

  Tor looked at his soaking clothes hanging over the heater. It was difficult to get dressed, but he had no other option. A few minutes later, he opened the caravan door and sneaked out, in the same direction that the security guard had taken.

  The wet clothes and the cold soon turned his body into a stiff board. He kept close to the row of caravans and finally came to the caravan that the security guard had just rounded. As he took a peek around the corner, he saw her sitting in a patr
ol car, leaving the caravan site.

  Obviously, she had not seen his carrier bag. Tor hurried back to the caravan and ripped off his wet clothes. He quickly rolled himself up in the dog blanket again. Finally, he could get some sleep.

  Leo Brageler returned to his damp mattress after a painful journey to the rusty sink. He had crawled over the wet, concrete floor and succeeded in quenching his thirst with water from the tap. The brown slime tasted sour, as if it had come from an acid-rain well.

  Coughing fits heralding the onset of pneumonia ripped through his body, making him lose consciousness for short periods of time. After each attack, he became weaker. His existence had become an ordeal beyond his worst nightmare. They were keeping him alive to continue the torture, but it was the questions that tormented him more than the wounds on his body.

  Why hadn’t Cecilia been wearing her seat belt? He had blamed Anna for failing to keep their daughter safe. Was it her fault that they both had perished? Had she been careless? Had Cecilia suddenly reached for something in the back seat, making Anna lose her concentration?

  He would never know what had happened on that autumn day six years ago. It had all happened within a split second, because of the actions of a drunk, driving a lethal weapon.

  Now, as he himself was close to the end, he forgave Anna. Nothing mattered to him anymore. If he had not surrendered to pathetic self pity when he had attempted to take his own life, he would have not suffered like this.

  His rage had lashed out indiscriminately against innocent bystanders. The most painful image was of Malin, sacrificed in his pursuit of justice. He had taken everything from that young girl.

  He had handed out death sentences like the Almighty himself. What right did he have to do that?

  Yet, it was too late for penance or remorse. His punishment had started here and now, and he was ready for it.

  There were sounds in the distance. Doors that opened and steps that approached. They were here again. The lock rattled and the door slid open.

  In the light, Leo saw a silhouette; it was carrying something. It was a man carrying two big bags, whom he quickly recognized as a doctor.

  The man’s companions turned the spotlight on Leo’s lacerated body. The doctor worked fast and methodically. He asked questions, but Leo did not answer. Finally, he was given an injection that made him drowsy. Probably morphine. The doctor strapped up his ribs and subsequently cleaned his open wounds and stitched them shut. He worked on Leo’s body for a long time. Leo would soon be in a fit condition for these lunatics.

  What kind of doctor permitted this kind of madness? What medical oath allowed this? The doctor was not old. Perhaps in his thirties, yet skilled and zealous. His eyes burned with belief in the righteousness of his cause. Not unlike Leo himself until recently.

  “Give me a morphine overdose,” Leo whispered to the doctor, grabbing his arm.

  The man did not react. He continued to bandage a wound.

  “Let me die. That’s all I ask.”

  “My job is to keep people alive. Not to kill them,” the doctor answered.

  “Yet you are one of them?”

  The doctor did not answer.

  Leo mind was becoming foggier. His thoughts floated and became a jumble of disconnected ideas.

  He tried to create some order in the chaos. These were clearly professionals, so coldly calculating in their actions. No signs of stress or nerves. They did everything mechanically.

  Slowly, a realization dawned. Perhaps it was because of the doctor’s indifference. He was collateral damage in a war. A war for what? A war against whom? Against Islam? His captors were ruthless and wanted to get their hands on his invention. The compound he had developed after so many years and that performed its purpose with such accuracy. Making subjects kill even their nearest and dearest.

  Yet he still saw no logic in their actions. These monsters must have another objective. Everything they had said to date was just a pretext. In fact, they were looking for something else and this was exactly what he had feared. That his work would end up in the wrong hands.

  He had to get out of here to warn Himmelmann and the others. An idea began to take shape in his mind. Perhaps there was a purpose to all that had befallen him.

  The ones that had thrown him into this cell had opened his eyes. He needed only to play along. Get free of the morphine so that he could think clearly.

  Jörgen Blad put his arm around Sebastian and gave him a tender kiss on the chin. Sebastian had three days’ stubble, but had splashed on that wonderful Pal Zileri aftershave. Presumably for Jörgen’s sake. Sebastian did not acknowledge his gesture of endearment and continued to munch his crisps, absorbed in the denouement of the rental film.

  “I just can’t forget that Russian,” said Jörgen.

  “Mmm . . .” an absent-minded Sebastian responded.

  “It makes me feel humiliated and almost violated.”

  Sebastian continued to mumble.

  “Are you listening?”

  “Listening to what?” Sebastian looked at Jörgen, puzzled.

  Jörgen removed his arm. “You’re as bad-mannered as Walter,” he said sulkily, moving to the armchair.

  “What do you want me to say?” Sebastian asked and pressed the pause button, just as the killer stabbed an ice pick into the hero’s arm. “If he was an imposter, so what? Perhaps he was after your booty?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Jörgen said.

  “No? You don’t know him personally either?”

  “No, I already told you that,” Jörgen snapped, standing up.

  “Well then,” said Sebastian, turning the film back on. “Why do you care?”

  “I just want to know why. I’m a journalist and curiosity is part of my nature, as you perhaps remember. Besides, there’s a news story behind this character. I feel it with every fibre of my being.”

  “So you are interested in this guy?” Sebastian’s tone changed, just as the killer with the ice pick lost his balance.

  “Yes, but not in that way.”

  Sebastian said nothing.

  “What’s the problem now?” Jörgen exclaimed.

  “No problem. I was just checking,” said Sebastian.

  “How about your little adventure with Filip and André?” Jörgen countered. “You were gone for three weeks.”

  “I thought we’d finished discussing that topic,” Sebastian argued, as the hero impaled the killer’s eye with a ski stick. The scream from the surround-sound system made them both jump.

  “You’re right,” Jörgen capitulated. “Let’s drop the subject.” Reopening that discussion with Sebastian would be pointless and only result in a row.

  Still, he was unable to forget about the fake journalist. Could it be the Russians were looking for Leo Brageler’s drug? Was Jörgen being pulled into a secret war between rival intelligence agencies? Hardly credible. If the FSB had sent an agent, he would actually have been employed by a newspaper and would not have stolen an identity. That was for amateurs and quite unlike the FSB. As a crime reporter, he knew that much about the Russian intelligence agency.

  On the other hand, it was possible that the Russian mafia were involved somehow. The man was obviously fishing for information about Brageler. Yet that hypothesis did not seem rock solid either. One key motive was missing. Huge and immediate profit.

  Whatever the reason, they had not obtained anything of value from Jörgen. If the Russian appeared again, Jörgen at least knew what he would do.

  Tor Hedman awoke with a start barely one hour after the security guard had left the caravan site. The walls of the caravan creaked when he moved in his bed. He lay still for a little while and listened to the darkness, then turned over and closed his eyes. He rolled onto his other side. It didn’t help. Then he started to drum on the s
ide of the bed with his fingers. A creeping state of restlessness had taken hold of him. It was fucking impossible to fall asleep. Maybe it would help to change caravans and relieve some of his tension.

  He got out of bed and went over to the window, opened the curtains and wiped away the condensation. A thick fog had swept in and he could see no farther than the next caravan. It was like drowning in white porridge.

  Tor put on his damp clothes, taking his carrier bag with the tools and the dog blanket. He walked out into the peasouper and made his way farther into the caravan park. After finding another caravan with a fan heater, he jemmied open the second door of the night. He ransacked drawers and boxes and found to his delight a tin of Heinz baked beans. He opened the tin and ate the contents with his fingers. It did him good and his irritation abated as his blood sugar was topped up. He lay down on the bed, once again wrapped in the dog blanket. A few minutes later, he had fallen asleep.

  “Josuf Yahia?” Jonna inquired, when a sleepy voice answered the telephone. “Yes,” the man hesitated.

  “My name is Jonna de Brugge and I am from the police. We need to know if you had a fare from Götgatan tonight. A couple of hours ago, to be more exact.”

  A pause. “Why do you want to know that?” the man asked suspiciously.

  “We need to know where you dropped off the customer.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t divulge that information now,” Jonna answered.

  “Why not?”

  “As I said, we cannot release any of the details yet,” Jonna explained. “Did you have a fare, or not?”

  “No.”

  “Really?” Jonna could hear the disappointment in her own voice.

  “I’ve been on the north side of the city almost all night.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Listen,” the man said, getting irritated. “I’m a taxi driver and I know the difference between the north and the south.”

  “Of course,” Jonna apologized.

  She hung up and looked at Walter, disappointed.

  “You can turn around. It was the wrong taxi driver.”