It was just shadows playing tricks on Tor’s mind as he moved about. He turned cautiously towards the window on the other side. If he got out of the caravan that way, the toilet door would be directly to the right of him. He would be able to get up onto the roof as planned and then jump over the fence and disappear into the mist and the forest. But it was impossible to do that without making a noise. The cops would come around the side of the caravan and push Tor face down on the floor, with their MP5s aimed at his head. The alternative was to wait for the inevitable storming of his caravan with blast grenades and tear gas, which would be much worse. He carefully opened the window. As he shifted his body weight on the bench, the floor creaked. He froze, and listened for any movement outside the door.
It was quiet. He got one leg outside the window and carefully slid down towards the ground, before suddenly getting stuck. The buckle on his belt was snagged on a tent hook on the outside of the caravan. He pushed with his elbows and tried to get loose, but his own body weight held him as firmly as a carpenter’s vice. He attempted to pull himself up a few centimetres, but the strength left in his arms was not enough. Using his knees, he pushed backwards and outwards, but the admonishing finger of the tent hook stubbornly held onto him. He pushed with all his might and suddenly his belt broke. Tor fell to the ground but, luckily for him, landed on his feet. Even so, he lost his balance and fell against the fence with a crash.
The noise made by the fence would have made a nest of dormice scuttle from their hibernation. Quickly, he got to his feet and made a run for it. He bounced onto the door and when he felt the door lock beneath his shoe, he knew he was going to make it onto the roof.
Chapter 9
When the woman came out of the street door, she cast a sullen glance over her shoulder towards Mjasník, who jammed his foot in the door just as it was about to shut. He entered a stairwell filled with expensive ornaments from the 19th century, hanging from the ceiling and adorning the walls. The floor was of solid marble, consisting of mosaics on several ancient Egyptian themes. Images of pyramids and a sphinx formed a pathway to the stairs. The tenants of these flats had expensive tastes and obviously a good deal of money as well. How could a young, woman police officer afford to live here? It would be impossible in Russia unless she were taking bribes.
The lift started up and its counterweights were lifted by strong cables. It was an old model with iron, accordion doors. Mjasník started to climb the stairs. He had his eyes trained ahead constantly, so he would be able to avoid a face-to-face encounter.
As he approached the third floor, one of the doors opened. Someone rattled some keys. He had to keep walking, stopping midway between floors would only attract more attention. That was a mistake he had once made in Kiev.
Back then, the hit was supposed to look like a mugging gone wrong. Yet obvious enough to send a clear message. The target had come towards him from the second floor. Mjasník had been unprepared and surprised by their sudden meeting. The man should have stayed in his flat for at least another hour. Instead, he had been hurrying down the stairs with his briefcase in his hand. Mjasník had had only one chance. His dagger was still in his back pack and he had had only seconds before they passed each other. In one of his trouser pockets, he had a folding knife. He had pulled out the knife and folded out its longest blade, just as the target was coming around the bend in the stairs. Mjasník had averted his gaze and pretended to be looking for something. That had been a big mistake.
The man had halted a few metres in front of Mjasník and, when Mjasník looked up, the target had lunged for him. Both of them had fallen down the stairs, head over heels. The knife had fallen out of Mjasník’s hand as they both landed on the floor below.
The target had been the first to get to his feet and he had fled down the stairs towards the entrance and safety. Mjasník had grabbed the knife and rushed after him. As the target was opening the door, Mjasník had grabbed his arm. The man had swung around to defend himself, but he missed his chance. His fist had struck thin air. Mjasník had thrust the knife blade into the man’s throat, while simultaneously twisting his head and snapping the vertebrae in his neck.
He had left that target to his death throes on the floor.
Mjasník climbed the stairs to the next floor and met a man in a black, quilted jacket and a tie. Mjasník tried to appear as if he had forgotten something, and was trying to remember. The man was in a hurry, but still took the time to exchange a puzzled look with Mjasník as he got into the lift.
Mjasník could see the man watching him in the lift’s mirror, as the lift descended through the floor. He had taken an unnecessary risk by entering the woman’s building. He seemed to have been mistaken about working hours in Sweden. It was almost eight o’clock and there were still people at home.
He read the name on the flat’s letter box. The name was correct. Carefully, he put his ear against the door crack and listened. He felt warm air flowing through the door. If heat could escape this easily, so would sound. Yet he heard nothing. Either she was sleeping or she was not at home. To find out, he would have to ring the bell. He waited a little longer and still did not hear a sound. Finally, he pushed the doorbell. A long, insistent ring sounded inside the flat.
Treading quietly, he retreated quickly down the stairs while listening for the sound of a door opening. As he reached the ground floor, it was still silent. All that could be heard was a car driving by on the street outside. Mjasník went out onto the street and looked up at the flat. There was still no sign of life. She was not in her flat.
“1235 to 70. No contact,” Jonna replied. She waited for a response, but her radio was silent. The sound of running feet approached. Then the radio burst into life.
“Message received,” came the terse reply.
Then it fell silent again. Jonna knew what was about to happen. Soon the shit would hit the fan and she would find herself up to her ears in it. She had broken the rules and jeopardized the entire operation. That she also was a young woman did not improve her chances of getting off lightly. She sat down on the doorstep of the caravan and she caught sight of all the footprints on the ground.
Hedman had been here for sure. Perhaps he had left the site or maybe he had just moved to another caravan. Regardless, she had just exposed the whole operation in her eagerness and lack of caution. Her normally cold logic had evaporated in her adrenaline rush.
Three shadows materialized out of the fog as the flare slowly petered out.
“False alarm,” Jonna greeted the three SWAT officers. She pointed out the footprints on the ground in an attempt to mitigate her mistake.
“Are you alone?” one of them asked, surprised.
Jonna nodded.
The policemen looked at each other through their ski masks.
“I lost the others and then I saw these prints in the mud and . . .”
“You did a bloody stupid thing,” the team leader interrupted as he came around the corner of the caravan.
Shortly afterwards, Walter arrived. “Where the hell did you go to?” he began, raising his hands.
“You disappeared and . . .”
Walter shook his head. “It was you who disappeared. An officer and I have been looking for you. Why didn’t you go back?”
“But everyone went in different directions,” argued Jonna.
Walter looked at Jonna’s tired face. “I think you need some sleep,” he said.
The team leader, a short Northern Swede with little or no hair, exchanged a few words with Walter. He had a hot temper and looked agitated. Jonna thought he reminded her of a small terrier. Walter nodded knowledgeably, looking at Jonna. Apparently, they were discussing her disastrous performance.
“Now, listen carefully . . .” Walter said as he walked towards Jonna. He got no further before the police radios burst into life.
“Contact,” c
ame through on everyone’s personal radios. A red glow lit up the fog about fifty metres in front of them.
“He’s going over the fence,” a voice said.
“The roof. The roof.” Another police officer repeated frantically.
“Bloody hell,” Walter cursed.
“Send out the dog patrols now,” he ordered over his radio.
“They’re already on their way towards you,” Meiton answered on his radio.
“Turn back! Turn back!” Walter screamed into the radio.
Other voices started talking at the same time and, for a few intense seconds, there was pandemonium on the radio.
“If Hedman can get over the fence, then surely the dogs can too?” Jonna suggested. “The scent won’t be any stronger than it is right now.”
At first, Walter stared at Jonna as if she had made the stupidest suggestion of the year. Then he took the radio. “Take one of the dogs over the fence, but turn the other patrol around and go around the outside of the fence.”
“Understood,” one of the dog handlers acknowledged.
“Where is SÄPO?” Walter wondered.
“On their way back to the entrance,” the terrier replied.
“That figures,” Walter said under his breath.
The police radio sounded again. “The target has disappeared into the woods, northeast of the perimeter.”
Rolf Meiton ordered everyone to move away from the area and to regroup at the edge of the forest. Walter set off with Jonna on his heels. They almost got lost several times before they finally found the main entrance.
“He’s broken into several caravans,” Walter began, in an attempt to appease the glare in Meiton’s darkened eyes, which were now fixed on Jonna. “What happened was unavoidable.”
Meiton did not seem to share his opinion.
“We have the scent!” one of the dog handlers announced over the police radio.
Walter quickly took the radio. “Let the dogs loose!”
Meiton confirmed Walter’s order. The second dog also picked up the scent and was released.
Despite the fortuitous blunder by Jonna de Brugge, which had prematurely revealed the covert operation, the dogs now had picked up Hedman’s scent.
Why the idiot had not already made his escape, in the ample time since he had been warned, was beyond Martin’s comprehension. But then again, he was dealing with the scrapings of the barrel of the criminal world. To further complicate the situation, the fool had run off in the wrong direction. Instead of following instructions, he had run in the opposite direction, towards the Rävsta nature reserve and, if he didn’t change course, he would soon end up in Mälaren lake.
Tor’s head start was small. Too small.
At the most, he had one kilometre in his favour, which would take the dogs only about two minutes to catch up. He had no chance against two Alsatians without a gun. And even if he had a gun, the shots would reveal his position. The sun would soon be up and the fog would disperse, which would allow the police helicopters to take off with their heat-seeking cameras. Hedman would quickly be surrounded and Martin could do little more than hope that the moron got himself into a gun battle and was shot dead.
Martin watched the dog handlers as they ploughed through the wet snow. One officer was blowing his whistle. The more frequently he blew, the more agitated he became. Finally, he starting calling the dog’s name. Martin realized that something was wrong. It was difficult to follow the tracks of the dogs and their tracks disappeared altogether after a few hundred metres. A marsh appeared in front of them. Martin followed the footprints of the dog handlers, but still sunk into the soggy ground. The chill from the ice-cold water spread from his feet up to his back. He felt his muscles stiffen. It took fifty metres before they reached solid ground. Martin and the dog handlers split up and searched the edge of the wood for dog tracks. A few minutes later, the police radio crackled.
Jörgen Blad awoke as his telephone rang. He stretched for the phone on the windowsill and fumbled with the handset for a while before putting it to his ear.
“Yes?” he said, clearing his dry throat, his eyes still closed.
“There’s a big police operation going on in the Arlanda area,” the news director said. “The night news crew are there, but they need to be relieved.”
“I’m already on my way,” Jörgen replied, squinting at his alarm clock.
He was still in the twilight zone between night and day and his body still ached from the exertion of yesterday’s tennis match. Jörgen had lost in three straight sets and he could feel it.
“Call Bjarne. He knows where you need to go.”
Jörgen hung up and sat up in bed.
“Who was that?” Sebastian asked with sleepy eyes and turned over.
“Work,” said Jörgen.
“Now? This late?”
“Or early,” Jörgen answered, getting out of bed.
“Has something happened?”
“Something happens all the time.”
“You’re not still pissed off? About yesterday, I mean.”
“No,” Jörgen hesitated. “I’m just tired.”
Jörgen quickly got dressed and went into the kitchen to make a cheese sandwich. He wrapped it in clingfilm and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. Then he took his car keys from the cabinet in the hall and locked the front door behind him. Halfway down the stairs, he turned and went back up into the flat without removing his shoes, although Sebastian hated the idea of marks on the newly laid parquet. Jörgen bent over his boyfriend and kissed him on the forehead.
“So, you didn’t dare to just leave,” Sebastian smiled softly and kissed him back.
“I’ll call,” said Jörgen, and left the flat.
He sat in his car and turned onto Torsgatan towards Norrtull. Despite the street lights and modern xenon headlights, visibility was poor. Fortunately, the streets were practically deserted at this hour. Only one or two vehicles were on the roads. By the time he passed Karolinska University Hospital, warm air had spread throughout the car and he could now unbutton his jacket. He turned on the radio and some dramatic choral movements of Bach flowed from the speakers. Jörgen switched to the late-night DJ on the P3 radio station; he had just taken a caller who was upset about the state of the environment. As the caller appealed to all listeners to scrap their cars, Jörgen took out his mobile phone and pressed the number of Bjarne, who was on the night shift.
“Bjarne,” a voice answered.
“JB here,” Jörgen announced. “I’m just passing through Sollentuna. Where am I going and what’s going on?”
“You have to go to a caravan site. I’ll tell you more about it when you get there,” Bjarne said. “Call when you’ve taken the exit to Sigtuna and we’ll meet at the Stadium.”
Jörgen hung up.
The radio caller spluttered and swore about global warming until the late-night DJ disconnected the call. Jörgen switched to one of the commercial stations and was greeted by 50 Cent rapping his song “Before I Self Destruct”. After changing to yet another station, he ended up in the middle of a frenzied commercial for hamburgers. He turned the radio off and increased his speed. He was soon driving in excess of one hundred and thirty kilometres an hour. After driving past the Upplands Väsby exit, he was overtaken by a police car with blue lights flashing. Despite the poor visibility, the police car maintained its high speed. Something big had definitely happened.
Tor had just climbed on top of the caravan roof when he heard the sound of footsteps approaching. He turned towards the fence, but stopped when he saw a reddish glow a small distance away. They had found the first caravan he had broken into and were now following his tracks. Taking a run up, he leapt over the fence, landing softly on the other side, and got quickly to his feet. Shadows appeared by the caravan and voices broke
the silence. A dog’s barking cut through the mist. Tor grabbed his carrier bag and ran into the wood. Visibility was only a few metres so he constantly had to avoid colliding with trees. He knew that he was heading in the wrong direction. But he could hold this course for a while, then change direction and go around the police cordon, and still get to the gravel road. Although a bit later than instructed. As usual, the smallest hitch could make a difference between success and failure.
His biggest obstacle was the fog and the dogs. If the dogs had been released, then his chances would be slim. Tor took the small hammer from his carrier bag as he crossed the marsh. So far, so good.
The cops were still looking for him in the caravan site. He sank up to his ankles in water and, despite his ankle-high boots, icy water seeped in through the stitches.
Just as he felt solid ground under his boots, he heard a sound behind him. A shadow rushed out of the dark and he only just managed to raise his arm in defence. An indescribable pain exploded in Tor’s right arm as the Alsatian locked its jaws around it. He fell backwards, with the dog on top of him. The Alsatian furiously chewed on the thin, plastic resin cast protecting Tor’s arm. He made an attempt at a clumsy blow with the hammer, but missed. He took another shot and managed to hit the dog on its back, but the blow was too weak and it just made the dog even more enraged. Suddenly, the dog released his arm and went for Tor’s throat. He managed to parry the attack and the dog seized his arm again. Tor gripped his hammer and hit out as hard as he could. This time he hit the dog’s head and the force of its jaws diminished. The dog whined and released his arm for a moment. Tor reacted quickly and smashed the claw of the hammer against the back of the dog’s skull. It stumbled to its side, as if seriously intoxicated, before falling to the ground.
One moment later, it was no longer breathing.
Tor stood up on trembling legs, only to be faced by yet another Alsatian. This time, he managed to kick out one of his legs and the dog instinctively locked his jaws onto Tor’s calf. Tor nearly lost his balance, but managed to stay upright with the help of a tree. The police dog was fully occupied with Tor’s leg and never saw the hammer blow coming. Tor got in a bull’s-eye with the hammer claw on the back of the dog’s head and it crashed to the ground, whimpering loudly.
Project Nirvana Page 12
