Project Nirvana

by Stefan Tegenfalk

  He turned to the man with the accent. An unspoken order was given and the man left the room.

  Leo wondered how they would get their hands on the envelope. Violence was no stranger to these monsters. He had not anticipated this. An ex-directory phone number and a pig-headed solicitor. He hoped she was better prepared than he was.

  Alice McDaniel drank up her coffee and paid the bill. She decided to leave the hotel immediately and change her flight for one that departed the same evening. She briefly considered calling the police, but after some consideration she decided against it. What could she say? That a client had called her on an ex-directory number in the Isle of Man and asked her to deliver his property in Stockholm for a fee? The reputation of her law firm would be irreparably damaged if she involved the Swedish police, who would probably not lift a finger. At the same time, she found it unacceptable that it had been so easy to get hold of her ex-directory telephone number. Why wouldn’t her client meet her in person? She didn’t understand the point of this ridiculous game; her irritation was replaced by indignation.

  Walter could smell Hedman’s anxiety. Adrenaline mixed with Walter’s fear of death produced a suffocating heat under the blanket. They went out through the front door and down the steps. Walter felt Hedman’s heavy, wet breathing on his neck. He was breathing in short, sharp gasps. Following Hedman’s instructions, they staggered to the Mazda. This was a critical moment. Walter opened the passenger door and carefully got into the car. The blanket and the darkness made it difficult to get his bearings and Walter had to feel his way forwards with his hands. He found the dashboard and then the steering wheel.

  “Get a move on,” Tor growled, impatiently.

  Walter slid over to the driver’s seat. Rivulets of sweat ran down his back and when he finally sat behind the wheel he could breathe normally. Walter fished the car keys from his trouser pocket and lifted the blanket over his head.

  “Drive,” Tor ordered.

  Walter started the car and put it in gear.

  “Hurry up,” shouted Tor.

  Walter quickly accelerated and by the time they got to the road, the car was already doing seventy kilometres an hour. There was a sharp left turn and Walter almost went into a skid in the front-wheel drive car. They drove through the police tape at high speed, going south on the gravel road.

  The small Mazda bounced between the potholes in the road.

  “Take your finger off the trigger and slowly release the hammer,” Walter suggested as they approached a mini-minefield of potholes. If they hit a big hole, the gun could accidentally go off.

  “Keep driving!” Tor yelled from under the blanket.

  Walter tried to avoid the biggest potholes. With sudden turns of the steering wheel, he was able to crisscross between the holes in the road. Suddenly, the car rocked violently. Walter’s head flew into the side window and he almost drove off the road. For a split second, he thought it was all over.

  Tor threw the blanket off and looked around dazedly.

  “What the fuck happened?”

  “Holes in the road. The suspension hit the ground.”

  “Take a right towards Stockholm,” Tor ordered as they approached the tarmac road.

  Walter swung to the right and accelerated as much as the Mazda could take. In the rearview mirror, Walter saw a police car turn out from the gravel road. It stopped and blocked the traffic behind them.

  “Where to now?” he asked. “Do you have an address? Or shall I . . .”

  “We’re going into town,” Tor interrupted and twisted the rearview mirror so that he had a clear view.

  “Where in town?”

  “I’ll give you directions.”

  It would take them half an hour to get to the city. During that time, Walter had to think of something. Any attempt to get free of Hedman was futile. If he had a pistol, he could possibly shoot Hedman in the head. But only if he was sure that Hedman didn’t have his finger on the trigger. Walter could sense Hedman’s finger nervously twitching.

  “I think Martin Borg is going to get rid of you the first chance he gets,” began Walter and tried to read the instant reaction in Tor’s eyes.

  “I don’t give a shit what you think.”

  “This car has no tracking device on it. And it’s not been treated with UV light so that the helicopter can spot it.”

  Tor said nothing.

  “And I don’t see that we are being followed either.”

  “So?” Tor looked at Walter, amused. “Are you going to let me escape?”

  Walter nodded.

  “Don’t you understand what is taped to your neck,” Tor laughed. “I am going to get away. The question is what happens to you.”

  “We’re both going to die,” Walter answered calmly.

  “Why do you keep talking about dying all the time,” Tor shouted. “Why do you keep saying it?”

  “Because we are both witnesses now,” Walter explained. “You, because of the things you have seen, and me, because I’m stuck to you on our way to meet your executioner.”

  “You talking about that Borg again?”

  “Maybe someone else.”

  “Do you think I’m daft?”

  “No, but it would be stupid not to listen. Think logically for once.”

  Tor looked at Walter for a long time without saying anything.

  Walter didn’t know what that meant. Perhaps he had started to make Tor think. Whatever happened, they would be in the city in twenty minutes.

  Jonna rang Johan Hildebrandt to ask for a meeting as soon as possible. Afterwards, she checked that Åsa Julén was at her desk in the Prosecutor’s Office. In the next hour, she would discover if she still had her job or if she had taken the first step towards digging the grave of her career in law enforcement.

  Hildebrandt looked at Jonna for a while without saying a word. As usual, he was trying to figure out what the other person was thinking. Quite often, he was successful, but only because he kept himself well informed about matters in his own department. Jonna was currently an outsider and therefore unpredictable.

  “Missing us already?” he said, smiling.

  Jonna smiled feebly back. Despite Hildebrandt’s sympathetic nature, she felt as if she was sitting on a ticking timebomb. Just as she gathered the nerve to deliver her message, a text message beeped on her phone. She apologized, but Hildebrandt indicated that he was in no hurry. Jonna knew that would change once she had spoken. She read the text message from Dennis Carlinder.

  Lilja wants hard evidence before he talks to Internal Affairs

  or approves pre-paid SIM card investigation. Did not men-

  tion your name.

  /DC

  Lilja wanted evidence? A confession, perhaps. Walter was right about David Lilja. His main concern was to protect his position as head of Stockholm County CID. Backing up Walter was one thing, but risking his own neck to solve a crime was not something he would do.

  “Let me put it like this,” Jonna said slowly.

  Hildebrandt listened intently.

  Jonna was not sure how to express herself. After considering a number of preambles, she finally gave up and told it as she saw it.

  “We have a leak in the investigation.”

  Hildebrandt leaned backwards in his chair, impassively.

  “A leak?” he said finally.

  “Yes, a colleague who’s responsible for Tor taking Walter Gröhn hostage.”

  “Explain yourself.”

  “Before we started the raid, Tor Hedman was warned,” she said, “and we think we know who did it. Or rather, who was responsible for leaking the information.”

  Hildebrandt’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you coming to me with this?”

  “There’s no one else I can go to,” said Jonn
a. “My temporary boss, acting Detective Inspector Ivan Cederberg and his boss, David Lilja, refuse to get involved.”

  “I can understand that,” Hildebrandt said. “There’s no proof that the leak comes from within the police department.”

  Jonna looked at Hildebrandt, uncomprehendingly.

  “Well,” he explained, “if Hedman was warned before the raid, he could be a confidential informant or perhaps working for an informant of the County CID.”

  “Would such a person have access to our information?”

  “Probably not, unless the information was leaked to him because he is working undercover. Who do you think the leak is?”

  She thought twice and then decided to break her promise to Walter.

  “Martin Borg at the Counter-Terrorism Unit.”

  Hildebrandt was silent. His clear, stony eyes had suddenly clouded in confusion. He took a mouthful of cold coffee and then pushed his mug away from him.

  “As well as you and Walter, who else thinks along these lines?”

  “Dennis Carlinder at Surveillance,” Jonna said. “He’s spoken to Lilja, who wants to see evidence before he goes to Internal Affairs.”

  “Understandable,” said Hildebrandt. “To expose the identity of an informant is not something to be done lightly. Personal informants do not even exist officially. Only a very few are used, for various reasons.”

  “Why are personal informants used?” Jonna asked.

  “To prevent leaks,” Hildebrants explained. “Sweden has almost fifteen thousand police officers on active duty. Demographically speaking, one per thousand – roughly fifteen individuals – will be amoral individuals. In other words, colleagues who would commit illegal acts given the right circumstances. It may be paedophilia, consorting with recognized criminals, wife battering and so on. Most will get caught in the passage of time as they abuse the privilege of their profession; others will avoid detection by the vetting procedure at the Police Academy because they are already offenders who have learned to hide their crimes.”

  “So you think that Borg might be protecting Hedman because he’s working for him as a personal informant?”

  “It’s possible,” Hildebrandt said, sounding unconvinced. “Although it’s unusual, even for SÄPO. But they have worked outside the regulations in the past; however, in such cases it’s usually sanctioned higher up in the organization.”

  “Borg is definitely one of those fifteen amoral individuals,” Jonna exclaimed. “He’s the rotten apple here. Not Hedman.”

  Hildebrandt laughed at Jonna’s outburst.

  “Take it easy,” he said. “I’m just explaining the rules of the game. But what evidence is there to prove that it is Borg?”

  Johan Hildebrandt often played the devil’s advocate and Jonna usually lost those discussions. This time she was determined to win.

  “The Gnesta incident last year,” she said, and explained why she and Walter believed that Borg was lying about Ove Jernberg’s killer. That he was indeed protecting Hedman. But not because he was his informant, but because he was also implicated in the crime somehow. In addition, Borg had accomplices, indicated by the calls to other pre-paid mobile phones.

  Hildebrandt looked concerned.

  “If using Hedman is sanctioned by SÄPO, then he would not have been tipped off like that,” he said. “It all sounds very strange to me.”

  “So what do we do now?” asked Jonna.

  Hildebrandt paused for a moment.

  “You won’t do anything,” he said finally. “Most of all, you will cease any surveillance of SÄPO personnel.”

  “But Walter . . .”

  “Walter has other problems to worry about and you are not to jump off a cliff with him,” Hildebrandt cut her off. “Let me see what I can do.”

  “Such as?”

  Hildebrandt smiled in a paternal manner.

  “Just don’t rock the boat, Jonna. Focus on Leo Brageler,” he said. “I’ve no wish to see you nailed to a cross for impetuous misconduct. You don’t deserve that.”

  Impetuous misconduct? He was obviously not aware of her infamous solo act at the caravan site.

  Jonna left RSU with mixed feelings. Part of her wanted to rush into the unknown, regardless of the consequences. She went out of the police building and went to the café on the corner of Fleminggatan and Sankt Eriksgatan. Life was complicated. Nothing new about that, but the events of the last twenty-four hours had left her totally confused. Not just because of her exhaustion. She had challenges everywhere. The chaos at work and her lonely life at home. She just had to pick which problem to tackle.

  After half a cup of coffee, she succumbed to her tiredness. She leaned against the wall and looked at her reflection in a mirror on the wall.

  Time to make up her mind and she had done, after only half a cup of coffee. Actually, the decision had been made before she entered the café. Like a moth to a flame, she was drawn towards the unknown. To forget about Borg had never been an option.

  It was time for Chief Prosecutor Åsa Julén to listen to her story. After Hildebrandt, Julén was the person she trusted most. She had helped to reinstate Walter last year and had also put in a good word with Chief Inspector Lilja about Jonna’s transfer to Stockholm County CID.

  Jonna had to wait half an hour before Åsa Julén could see her. The Chief Prosecutor asked if she wanted something to drink. Jonna politely declined; she was sitting in a comfortable visitor’s chair, which was reproduction 17th-century.

  “Your visit was a little unexpected,” Julén began. “I’m afraid I have only five minutes before my next meeting.”

  “I’ll make it brief,” said Jonna and described the situation once again.

  As the minutes passed, Julén’s expression became increasingly troubled. Finally, she raised her hand.

  “Stop there,” she said.

  Jonna glanced at her watch. Exactly twelve minutes had passed. Julén picked up her phone and cancelled the meeting that she was already late for. “I don’t know where to begin,” she said.

  “The Prosecutor-General’s office?” Jonna suggested.

  “Yes,” Julén said, fixing her eyes on Jonna. “I know Chief Prosecutor Torbjörn Sandell at the Prosecutor-General’s Police Complaints section very well.”

  “Does the complaint have to come from our own Internal Affairs or from SÄPO itself?”

  “Both or neither,” Julén hesitated.

  “What does that mean?”

  “This is a hornet’s nest. Especially when it involves SÄPO.”

  “We have to . . .”

  “Let’s calm down, shall we?” Julén ordered and poured a glass of mineral water, which she pushed towards Jonna.

  “But . . .”

  Julén shook her head dismissively.

  “No,” she corrected Jonna. “To accuse an officer from the Security Service requires evidence so solid that not even an earthquake can crack it. Nothing short of a confession will give grounds for a warrant. Unless SÄPO hand the case over to us, which is highly unlikely. They prefer to solve their problems within the family. It’s the way that the organization works.”

  “So what can we do?” Jonna asked.

  “Nothing,” said Julén. “Especially if you want to have a future in the police.”

  “That sounds familiar,” Jonna muttered.

  “Let Walter and Lilja deal with your suspicions,” Julén suggested.

  “Can’t you at least talk to Sandell?”

  “And say what, exactly?”

  “Let me present the case . . .”

  “When Walter gets back, let him handle this by the book,” Julén interrupted and stood up.

  Jonna’s time was up. The Chief Prosecutor followed Jonna to the entrance and watched her leave the building. So
fearless, yet so naive, she thought. Julén wished there were more like Jonna, with the courage to challenge an institution where so many closed ranks.

  Instead of taking the lift back up to her office, she took the stairs. As she walked, thoughts raced through her mind. She shut her door and sat behind her desk. She looked at her phone, still thinking. Finally, she lifted the phone and dialled the number for Torbjörn Sandell.

  Mjasník was confused. Both the policewoman and the man she was following disappeared into the garage of the police headquarters. Mjasník had found her at the café, which she left before she went for a short visit to the Prosecutor’s Office. She then returned to the police headquarters. If this was an example of her daily routine, then he could expect a prolonged stay in Sweden. The car she had followed belonged to a consultant’s firm in Nynäshamn, according to the Department of Transport. She was an amateur at surveillance, so it had been easy for him to spot the car she was following. No matter how he tried, Mjasník could not make sense of her actions. According to the go-between, Walter Gröhn was the person leading the manhunt for his next target. Jonna de Brugge was his assistant, but right now they seemed to be doing nothing that could be linked to their search for Leo Brageler.

  The go-between had said that the company in Nynäshamn was a fake. There was no business being conducted by the company. The company phone number went to a call centre and its home page had not been updated for two years. An amateurish cover story that was typical of Swedish counter intelligence.

  Now that’s interesting, Mjasník thought, lighting a cigarette. He blew out smoke and flicked ash onto the “No Smoking” sticker of his hire car. He needed more answers. Why was she following a car that in all probability belonged to the Swedish Security Service? Mjasník remembered the third name that he had been given. Martin Borg, the agent responsible for the search for the drug the Swedes called Drug-X. He belonged to the Security Service. But why would the policewoman follow a colleague? Was there an internal power struggle? In his homeland, conflicts between state institutions were more the rule than the exception. GRU against FSB, the OMON forces, or the police’s Special Purpose Mobile Units, against the Army’s special units, and so on. For each answer, there was a new question.