Project Nirvana

by Stefan Tegenfalk

  “So we know the purpose of his trip.”

  “Breaking and entering.”

  “Most likely. And a place to lie low without being bothered.”

  “According to the owner of the caravan site, who by the way does not know anyone called Hedman, there is a security patrol once an hour every night,” Jonna said.

  “Call the security company and get hold of the guard who did the rounds. He will have to meet us at Sigtuna.”

  Jonna took out her mobile phone again. Her tiredness disappeared as adrenaline pumped through her body. Now she knew why she had transferred from RSU. She had missed the buzz that she had felt while on the case with Walter last year. She was hooked on the excitement. Like a drug addict. She shivered at the shameful analogy. “The security company says that the guard was female. She’s in the Arlanda area.”

  “The guard could be a midget for all I care; just get her here,” Walter said. “We’ll be meeting the SWAT team and dog patrols at Sigtuna Stadium in twenty-five minutes. I want the security guard there too.”

  “No helicopters?” asked Jonna.

  “One is grounded with technical problems. The other one is somewhere over Linköping and won’t be here for another hour at least. We will have to manage without our airborne colleagues.”

  Martin Borg woke up to his land-line telephone’s angry ringing. Half asleep, he fumbled for the handset on the bedside table as he tried to remember where he was. Not long ago, he had been standing over Leo Brageler, whose resistance had started to crumble slowly but surely. Martin was close to a breakthrough.

  “Yes,” he croaked into the telephone.

  “Kokk here,” announced Thomas Kokk.

  Silence. “Really?” said Martin, surprised to hear Kokk’s voice.

  “I have some good news,” continued Kokk.

  Martin was now alert and sat up in bed. What did he mean by good news?

  “County CID think they have found Tor Hedman.”

  Martin was suddenly wide awake. He stood up and felt his throat tighten. “What do you mean by ‘found’?” he blurted out in a strangled voice. How the hell had they managed to find him?

  “The SWAT team is on their way. I also want you to be on it. The duty team is already on their way.”

  “On their way to where?”

  “Sigtuna Stadium,” Kokk said. “In forty minutes, the caravan site nearby will be searched. County CID believe that Hedman is hiding in one of the caravans.”

  “How can they possibly know that? Martin cried, barely containing his outrage.

  “Calm down, Martin,” Kokk said, surprised at Borg’s outburst. “According to a taxi driver, Hedman was dropped off outside the main gate. It’s very likely that he’s hiding out in one of the caravans.”

  Martin’s blood boiled. Of all the means of transport, Hedman had taken a taxi to the meeting place. Martin should have guessed that Hedman was incapable of taking care of even this simple matter.

  “He robbed an all-night café on the Southside and then made his escape in a taxi,” Kokk continued. “Before that, he beat up a woman and stole her van.”

  Martin was lost for words. If County CID got their hands on Hedman, there was a risk that he would start talking. Martin had to do something, and in the next half hour. He ended the conversation and threw himself at his personal mobile phone. Breaking all the rules, he called the Mentor.

  “Some of our friends have located tomorrow’s star guest.” Martin started, suitably cryptically. “There’s not much time.”

  Martin heard the old man take a sharp breath.

  “We have to inform the guest that the venue has been moved,” the Mentor replied decisively, after a moment’s thought.

  “Unfortunately, I have to leave,” Martin said, checking the time.

  “Get going. I’ll arrange the change of venue.”

  Martin ran out of the flat. No matter what transpired, he had to keep his wits about him. Right now, the line between success and failure was very thin and the situation could swing either way in an instant. He had made far too many mistakes since the Gnesta incident, and had fallen prey to hubris. Perhaps the Mentor and the others were right after all. Thus far, Leo Brageler has given him only problems.

  If, against all the odds, County CID caught Hedman, it was vital to get him quickly transferred to SÄPO before he decided to save himself by blabbing. A skilled interrogator would easily confuse and trap Hedman into revealing things before the fool realized it. Martin needed to get hold of Chief Prosecutor Åsa Julén, but it was too early. On the exit road to Hagalund, he got hold of the duty prosecutor. Unfortunately, the young prosecutor did not seem in the least bit interested in transferring Tor Hedman into the hands of the Security Service. Until the suspect actually was in custody, there was nothing to discuss.

  “I cannot take it upon myself to make the decision to order the transfer without the Chief Prosecutor’s consent,” the duty prosecutor repeated for the third time.

  Martin realized that he was at a dead end. The junior prosecutor was terrified of making a mistake that would sabotage his career. Martin needed some time alone with Hedman to persuade him that they were still playing on the same team. He would make up a credible story so that Hedman kept his mouth shut until they could silence him for good. Perhaps a promise that all charges would soon be dropped if he said nothing. Tor Hedman was not one of Sweden’s brightest criminals.

  The ringtone of his mobile phone slowly forced Tor Hedman out of his slumber. He stared with bleary eyes at the number on the display. It was the number of the person who had arranged the meeting.

  “Yes . . .” His voice was croaky. Clouds of condensation caused by the cold air issued from his mouth.

  “Listen carefully,” the familiar, distorted voice said. This time, it sounded more stressed. “Leave immediately. They know where you are hiding.”

  It took a few seconds to sink in. They? Did he mean the cops? Had the security guard raised the alarm after all?

  “Are you there?” the androgynous voice asked.

  “Where the fuck am I supposed to go?”

  “Go north from the caravan site towards Arlanda,” the voice said. “Walk a few hundred metres through the woodland and you will end up on a gravel road. Stay out of sight, but be on the lookout for a silver Toyota with a number plate beginning with “F”. It will pick you up.”

  Tor threw off the dog blanket and pulled on his damp clothes. He climbed out of the caravan and listened. All he could hear was the melting snow dripping from the caravan roofs. He ran back along the same route that he had taken on the way in, but realized that it would be difficult to scale the fence. The tree was on the other side of the perimeter fence. He looked around and began to panic. There wasn’t a single tree inside the fence. How the fuck was he going to get out? He made his way towards the main gate, running along the fence hoping to find a gap. Ten minutes had already passed.

  As he approached the end of the fence, he saw something that could save his neck. A caravan with a flat tyre was parked next to the fence. If he could get onto its roof, he would be able to jump over the fence. Tor took out his tools and broke into the third caravan of the night. When he entered it, his hopes were instantly dashed.

  Chapter 8

  A blue-and-yellow police Volvo V70 with two dog patrols was already waiting when Walter swung into the car park of Sigtuna Stadium. Shortly afterwards, two SWAT vans and a command vehicle arrived. Together with the thickening fog, the weak lamplight of the car park turned them all a ghostly, pale grey.

  “The security guard will be here in two minutes with the keys to the gate,” Jonna said. She had already donned her bulletproof vest and made sure that her Sig Sauer was armed and ready.

  The SWAT-team commander was Rolf Meiton. He was a thick-set man from Skåne with
a deep voice. His nickname was “the Great Dane”, but he had a reputation more fitted to a tenacious pit-bull terrier.

  “Damned fog,” Meiton grunted, looking at the milky-white mist surrounding them.

  “It’s only going to get worse,” Walter said. “According to the weather forecast, the mist from Mälaren lake is going to get worse in the next few hours. Quite unusual, according to the meteorologists.”

  “I’ve never seen it this bad,” Meiton said.

  “We’ll have to get used to freak weather as long as we use the planet as a rubbish dump,” Walter commented.

  Meiton nodded in agreement, then unfolded and spread out a map. “According to the owner’s records, there are approximately ninety caravans parked on the site,” Meiton began and pointed to the map. “If we assume that Hedman is hiding in one of them, we should look for damaged caravan doors. A broken caravan lock is easy to spot. We’ll keep the dogs here until we need them; I don’t want them making a lot of noise. We are observing total radio silence until contact with the target is made. With a bit of luck, we can catch him while he’s still asleep.”

  “Do we know if he’s armed?” one of the team leaders asked.

  “Probably,” Meiton said. “From now on, the order to arm weapons and fire at will is in effect.”

  Two unmarked cars drove at high speed towards their car park.

  “SÄPO’s here,” one of the SWAT officers said.

  “I want the dog handlers outside the perimeter fence,” Walter said. “Preferably one at each end of the site.”

  Meiton shook his head. “The dog handlers will wait inside the van, so they don’t make any noise.”

  “That sounds like a good idea,” Martin Borg agreed, as he approached with three officers from the Security Service.

  “But if he climbs the fence . . .”

  “Why would he do that?” Martin objected. “We have the element of surprise on our side.”

  Meiton agreed. “In the event that he makes it over the fence, the dog patrols can take over. I don’t want to corner a trigger-happy fugitive.”

  “We’ll lose time with the dogs in the van,” Walter argued, irritated by both Martin Borg’s interference and Meiton’s stubbornness. “It’s important to capture him before he has time to think too much.”

  “If the worst happens, we’ll only lose a minute or two,” Meiton retorted. “It’s better not to force his hand.”

  Martin nodded in agreement.

  Walter could not understand why Meiton was being so bull-headed. He was also taking Borg’s advice, despite the operation being outside the jurisdiction of SÄPO. This was County CID’s and Walter’s investigation. Unfortunately, there was no point in arguing. Meiton was in charge of the operation and Walter would immediately take custody of Hedman when he was captured. “Jonna and I will follow the perimeter, together with SÄPO,” suggested Walter. “We’ll improve our odds if he decides to go over the fence.”

  Martin looked perplexed. “We can’t participate,” he apologized. “Hedman is not of interest to us.”

  Jonna was just about to say something when Walter discreetly took her to one side.

  “I know what you want to say,” he whispered. “That he is full of shit.”

  “Something like that,” Jonna said. Her eyes had turned black as coal.

  “Leave it alone,” Walter said. “I’m satisfied with the way things are now.”

  “Satisfied? But you just said . . .”

  “We’ll talk later,” said Walter calmly.

  “But . . .”

  “Not now!” Walter’s voice hardened.

  The adrenaline rush was making Jonna argumentative. The fact that she had a personal problem with the arrogant Borg just made it worse. Furthermore, Walter was leaving something unsaid. She did not know what it was and there was no time for further questions. In two minutes, the raid would start. Jonna ran to meet the security guard. She was stocky and at least as muscular as any of the weightlifting SWAT officers.

  “We need to go in through the main gate.”

  The security guard took out a large bunch of keys.

  “Of course,” she said, shaking the keyring. Her voice was deep and her eyes were intense.

  Walter looked at the security guard. The woman seemed familiar in some way. The square face; the thin, crooked nose. Then it came to him. He had recently seen a programme about the World Challenge, the largest tournament of women arm wrestlers in the world. She was Sweden’s best hope for a medal. Unfortunately, he could not recall her name.

  “One minute and counting,” Meiton announced over his personal radio.

  They all got back into their vehicles. The security guard sat beside Walter in the passenger seat.

  “You didn’t notice anything when you did your rounds?” he asked, driving to the front of the convoy.

  “No,” the woman replied. “Who are you after?”

  “A fugitive.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “We can’t disclose that yet.”

  “Is he armed?”

  “There is a possibility that he has a firearm,” Walter confirmed.

  The woman pursed her lips thoughtfully.

  “Then it’s my lucky day,” she said in a tense voice.

  “You could say that,” Walter said, taking a cough drop. He offered one to the security guard, but she declined.

  Walter parked a short distance from the main gate, so that his car was hidden by some trees. The SWAT team got out quickly from their vehicles and silently positioned themselves in front of the gate. The security guard unlocked two huge padlocks. The black-uniformed policemen fanned out in groups of three. Jonna took her Sig Sauer from her holster and removed its safety catch. Walter did the same. Together with one of the SWAT teams, they made their way along the fence. With torches set to dim, they began inspecting the caravan locks. The mist reduced visibility almost to zero. Like ghosts crouched against the rows of caravans, they examined lock after lock. It was time-consuming and, despite the cold and the damp air, Jonna was sweating. Transparent beads formed on her forehead and trickled down her temples. She felt the adrenaline rushing through her veins. The condensation from her breath mixed with the mist to form a milky-white cloud. She watched Walter’s silhouette, which was slightly to her right. Like a mirage, he floated in and out of the mist. Surprisingly, he moved nimbly for someone with a damaged spine. She held her gun with both hands, pointing at the ground in front of her. Jonna whispered to Walter, but he did not hear her. Instead, he disappeared into the fog. She looked up, so she would not lose sight of the SWAT officer ahead. She just had time to see the fog swallow him up as well. As she moved rapidly to catch up with the officer, whose name she did not know, she heard something snap under her shoe.

  She froze and carefully lifted her foot. On the ground, she saw a broken twig. The sound made some birds fly away. She swore silently. Now she had also lost sight of the other two.

  An eerie silence reigned. All she could hear was her own breathing. She scanned the area with her eyes, trying to get her bearings.

  The light from the lamp posts cast dark shadows over the caravans. Something moved in front of her and she tried to make out what it was. From one of the shadows, she saw a figure coming towards her. She stood absolutely still, listening to her heart beating frantically.

  With arms locked, she raised her Sig Sauer and aimed at whoever was approaching. Just a few metres away from her, the figure veered off into another shadow. She stood her ground with the gun pointed into the darkness for a few seconds before she lowered it and started to move forwards again. If she didn’t find anything, then no one else would, she thought.

  With her back to one of the caravans, she advanced. As she came to its door, she stopped and shone her small torch on the lock. Ju
st as she thought she spotted some damage to the lock, a shadow appeared at the corner of her eye. She span round and raised her weapon.

  Mjasník parked his car some distance from the woman’s building. It was five o’clock in the morning and the city was still sleeping. He had a good view of the main entrance and could still recline his seat without losing sight of it. Some metres from the entrance, there was also a garage door. She would probably leave through it if she had a car. Unfortunately, it would be difficult to see the driver in the dark. Mjasník would be forced to use the excellent mobile-phone app, conveniently made available by the Department of Transport, to identify her car.

  After a long while, the garage door opened and a silver Audi A6 drove out. Mjasník entered the registration number into his mobile phone and texted it to the Department of Transport number. Fifteen seconds later, he received the reply. The owner was one Alf Bronelid, born in 1952.

  “Not you,” Mjasník said aloud.

  Half an hour later, another car left the garage. A MINI Cooper that was not registered to Jonna de Brugge either. Mjasník looked up at the flat. It was now seven o’clock and most of the flats had their lights on. Except one.

  By seven-thirty, the residents were leaving the building both from the main entrance and the garage. For each car, he had an answer within fifteen seconds and every time it was the wrong answer. Mjasník looked up at the darkened flat one last time before finally getting out of the car.

  Leo Brageler awoke to the familiar, metallic sound of the key turning in the door lock. The old man came in and sat down on the stool again.

  The dawn light crept in through the doorway and spread a misty shimmer around the room. Condensation ran down the walls and formed small rivulets on the floor.

  “Are you feeling better?” he began, pushing forwards a tray of bread and water with his shoe.

  Leo squinted into the daylight and saw several figures enter the room. He answered with a nod of his head.