Project Nirvana

by Stefan Tegenfalk

  The man with the accent was the first to break the silence. “But this would mean immortality. Simply switch bodies.”

  Leo smiled. “That’s one way of looking at it,” he said, as the pain started to return.

  “It also means that there could be two completely identical souls. Actual kindred spirits.”

  Leo nodded.

  “But which is which? How will I know which soul is actually mine?”

  “There is no ‘mine’ any more,” Leo said. “You would be both.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The man paced back and forth over the concrete floor. The old man watched his colleague irritatedly.

  “Which one is the original soul, so to speak?”

  Leo smiled. “Both of them.”

  “Enough of this nonsense,” said the old man, standing over him. “Let’s assume that you’re not lying. That everything you said is fact. What was the motivation for doing this research? To demonstrate how far science can go or to make all our souls immortal?”

  Leo saw it bothered the old man. He was in a turmoil.

  “Perhaps to lay to rest the myth that God and religion represent,” Leo said.

  “You must know why,” the man with the accent said. “You were yourself a part of it.”

  “What’s the goal of all science?”

  “To better . . . almost anything,” the man suggested.

  “Man is an inquisitive species,” Leo said. “Curious about the world we live in and also about that which we do not understand.”

  “Why didn’t you stay in the project?”

  “I had other things on my mind,” said Leo, looking down at the concrete floor. Images of Anna and Cecilia flashed before his mind’s eye. For a short time, he had stopped thinking about them. “In the beginning, I was driven by the science and the opportunity to work with Günter Himmelmann, which was a great honour. To answer your question, I can only say that I don’t know why I stopped, and that mankind is perhaps not ready for this discovery yet. Just as unprepared as it was sixty years ago, when the atom was split. Great discoveries demand great responsibility.”

  The old man retrieved his stool and sat down again. His eyes were dull. “Who is behind the murders of Himmelmann and the others?”

  Leo was silent.

  “Why would he destroy all his research records? What was he trying to hide?” the old man went on.

  Leo sank back onto his mattress. He knew as little as they did. Someone wanted them to fail. Someone in their midst. Why would Günter destroy all his research? So that it wouldn’t end up in the wrong hands? Leo was even more confused.

  Günter was dead, but all he felt was emptiness. There was no more room for mourning. That was reserved for Anna and Cecilia.

  Mjasník reverently assembled his new Izhmash SV-98. The high-velocity sniper rifle was just as beautiful as it was lethal. The best Mother Russia could provide. So refined, yet so brutal. A masterpiece of engineering. He glanced once again at his laptop. The woman police officer was moving locally between insignificant addresses in Stockholm. The detective inspector hadn’t made any unusual movements either. After turning on his mobile phone, the detective inspector had kindly updated it with the covert tracking program. Mjasník was constantly amazed by people’s blind faith in technology.

  The commotion surrounding the hostage-taking had evaporated as quickly as it had started. Although Mjasník could follow every step that both the police officers took, he was back to square one. But he had patience. Unlimited time and patience.

  Walter had categorically refused to be admitted to the A&E at Karolinska University Hospital, despite the doctor’s request. He was in good physical shape and his only problem was the duct tape stuck in his hair. A female colleague, who by her own admission cut her five-year-old’s hair, volunteered to help.

  After a brief conversation with the specialists from the National Police Board’s counselling team, Walter asked Nilsson at Surveillance if the offer of a lift was still valid. He needed to get away from the circus and to his bed at home.

  “Sure,” she said, looking at Walter sympathetically. “When do you want to go?”

  “Now, before I fall asleep on my feet.”

  Ten minutes later, he awoke in a daze outside his building’s street entrance. He took the lift and kicked off his shoes as soon as he closed his front door. He collapsed into the sofa and lay face down in a cushion. He didn’t have any strength left to think about the coming skirmish tomorrow with the SWAT commander. If Rolf Meiton had given the order to follow Walter, it would be revealed then. He hoped that it was not the case. Meiton was not someone who backed down from a fight. Neither was Walter.

  He closed his eyes, thinking about Hedman and his decision. An idiotic decision, which had not benefited him or Hedman. Hedman had burned his bridges and Walter had seen his chance to get to Borg go up in smoke.

  A moment later, Walter was sound asleep.

  Alexander Westfeldt was fascinated by Jonna’s attempt to catch a piece of cucumber that took a head-long dive into her lap.

  “Oops, that was a tricky bit,” he said, with a gentle smile.

  “I’m having a slight dexterity problem,” she said, putting her sandwich on her napkin.

  “You look . . . a little exhausted.”

  “I had a late night. In fact, I had no sleep at all.”

  “No sleep?”

  “Unfortunately,” said Jonna, trying to stifle a yawn.

  “May I ask why?”

  “Work. We went on a raid that took longer than planned.”

  “Overtime?”

  “Yes,” Jonna said, struggling to smile.

  “Does this have anything to do with the maniac who took the hostage?”

  “Yes,” said Jonna, immediately regretting it. Was she trying to impress him? She didn’t recognize herself.

  “You can’t say anything.” Alexander took the words out of her mouth.

  “Correct,” Jonna answered, yawning yet again.

  She apologized and swore to herself over the bad timing. Of all the days and nights, Hedman had chosen to start his escapades last night.

  Alexander nodded sympathetically and took a sip of his coffee. “You know what I think?” he said, picking up his jacket.

  Jonna perked up. “No?”

  “I think you need some sleep. I also have to make preparations for tomorrow.”

  Jonna watched him take out his wallet and was about to do the same. She searched her pockets, but discovered that she had left her purse in her other jacket. She searched again to be sure, but her pockets were just as empty as her head. Brilliant, she thought. “I seem to have left my purse at home,” she said, feeling embarrassment oozing from every pore in her body.

  “Cool, so I get to buy you coffee after all,” laughed Alexander.

  “Yes, I guess you do,” Jonna smiled back sheepishly. She would never again go on a date without at least twelve hours’ sleep. Alexander paid with his credit card, while Jonna checked her missed calls and text messages from the last hour. Sandra had sent seven messages. In the last one, she had terminated their friendship due to the missing status reports. Jonna chuckled to herself about her volatile friend who, as suddenly as she broke up with Jonna, would call back to make peace again. Tomorrow, she would be back to normal.

  Alexander politely held open the door. Jonna was briefly energized by the cold air. She pulled her jacket zip as high as she could and buried her hands in her pockets. Alexander stuffed the receipt in his wallet and Jonna noticed how meticulous he was. Perhaps something he had learned as an archaeologist. Excavating remains that were hundreds of years old required a certain degree of precision. She liked his confident, natural moves. How he spoke. His well-chosen words, which made boring subjects so
und interesting. She had heard no swearing or slang, but he did like to make fun of himself.

  His weaknesses? Some small thing that annoyed her. A sound or something about the way he looked. No one is perfect; that’s a fact. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t think of any failing. At least, not now. If something is too good to be true, then it usually is. Something her father was quick to remind her of, the few times she hadn’t kept her feet on the ground. Jonna looked at the ground and her brown leather boots. Nowadays, they were always anchored to the ground.

  “Thank you for the good company,” said Alexander neutrally and put his hands in his jacket pockets.

  “Likewise,” said Jonna, shaking from the cold.

  “I’m going in that direction,” he said, pointing towards Kungsgatan.

  “Me too,” Jonna lied.

  “Where do you live?”

  “In the other direction, but I usually take a walk in the evening and then I take that route.”

  He nodded. “Do you always walk the same way?”

  “Mostly. I sometimes vary it and take a walk around Djurgården instead.”

  “I see.”

  They started to walk along Birger Jarlsgatan and Jonna tried to keep warm by thinking of something hot. What could be better than a cosy blanket and hot chocolate topped with whipped cream? Preferably in the company of someone else, in front of a crackling fire in a timber cabin with snow up to the window-ledges, completely isolated from the world. It had been years since she had been to Dalarna province and the remote, timber lodge that her parents had built when she was a small child. She had done some cross-country skiing. She had made food and gossiped, while drinking copious amounts of wine. Made calls amounting to almost one thousand crowns on her mobile phone until she finally came down with a dose of cabin fever. Jonna suddenly felt silly.

  What was she doing? He must think she was desperate . . .

  “I live here,” said Alexander, stopping by a dark oak door. Jonna read the street sign.

  “Rimbogatan?” she said. “Not bad.”

  “Yes, we sublet a three-room flat,” Alexander explained.

  “We?”

  Jonna regretted the question straightaway. Whom he lived with was none of her business.

  “I share a flat with Samuel, who in turn rents it from a relative who has moved abroad. For tax reasons, I believe.”

  Jonna nodded without saying a word. Somewhere deep down, she felt a sense of relief.

  “The more money, the bigger the trouble,” he continued, grinning.

  “Yes, I suppose so,” Jonna said, thinking of her own family. In the next few moments, it would go one way or another. Jonna shook from the cold and her fatigue smothered her ability to think straight. She wasn’t thinking clearly, but the entrance looked enticingly warm.

  “I, eh, don’t want to seem . . . pushy,” began Alexander, “but you’re welcome to come up for some hot tea, if you like.” He looked at the building’s façade.

  Jonna’s raised her eyebrows, feigning confusion.

  “Look, I’m not trying to . . .”

  She looked at him, inquisitively.

  “Let me call you a taxi,” he started again. The cool self-confidence that had enveloped him earlier had now vanished. At least, he was paying attention to her body language.

  “I’m not sure,” Jonna hesitated, gazing towards Engelbrektsgatan as if she were planning her walk home.

  Alexander took out his mobile phone. “I’ll get a taxi for you,” he said. “Don’t worry, I’ll pay the fare since you don’t have any money.” He pressed the number for a taxi.

  Jonna was surprised by his hasty retreat. Wasn’t he prepared to put up a better fight for her? Didn’t he understand the game?

  “Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll walk,” she blurted out.

  Alexander cancelled the call.

  Jonna was totally confused. Although her body was screaming for her to go up and get some tea, here she was babbling about walking home.

  “I see,” Alexander said. “Perhaps we can call each other when I get back?”

  “Perhaps,” said Jonna, not knowing who was in charge of her tongue. It felt as if it was someone else saying the words.

  After saying goodbye to Alexander, Jonna walked along Engelbrektsgatan. A formal handshake, as if they had closed a business deal, and she was once again alone. Lethargy mixed with irritation and apathy washed over her. She was socially dysfunctional. Even Walter could have done better. Wonder what was the next failure? Dismissal from the force or a nervous breakdown? Neither of these options seemed so far-fetched now.

  She walked as far as Birger Jarlsgatan before trying to find a taxi, although she had no money. It wouldn’t take more than a few minutes to fetch her purse from her flat. Even the crankiest taxi driver shouldn’t have a problem with the wait.

  Taxi after taxi passed by with its “for hire” light turned off. She started to walk towards Stureplan square. The cold drilled down to her bones and she soon felt like a frozen fish finger.

  After a while, an unlicensed cab stopped and asked if she needed a taxi. Jonna waved the man away and he spun his wheels and drove off. A few moments later, she saw a taxi with its light on. She waved vigorously and felt her hopes rise as the yellow Toyota made a beeline for her. At the corner of her eye, she saw someone fast approaching from behind. Probably someone trying to get the same taxi. She began to jog towards the cab. This taxi was not going to be taken from her. Suddenly, a hand grabbed her shoulder.

  Thomas Kokk left his meeting with Johan Hildebrandt in the certain knowledge that Martin Borg’s days at SÄPO were numbered. His suspicions over the Gnesta event had been confirmed by Hildebrandt’s source and all that was missing was the firm evidence to start an internal investigation into his own team leader.

  What concerned Kokk the most was that Borg did not seem to be working alone. It was unclear if they were people inside or outside SÄPO. Equally unclear were their goals and how long they had been active. It was not unusual for secret groups to form in the shadows of the intelligence world. Small alliances which took in members who were dissatisfied with the way things worked. Many were disgruntled over the methods used for hunting terrorists, or the lack of potential informers after the collapse of the Eastern Block. It could be a dislike for certain politicians or just the state of the world in general. These small groups did not normally present a threat, as long as they remained private debating societies. But Borg, and those supporting him, were more than a secret club for voicing dissent.

  Ove Jernberg’s use of the American truth serum Diaxtropyl-3S and the Gnesta incident had to be part of something big. Kokk did not know what it was, but it was now a priority to find the answer.

  He took out his mobile phone and connected his encryption device, then he pressed the number for the Agency Director, Anders Holmberg. After a quick update, Kokk was greeted by silence.

  “Put Borg under surveillance,” said Holmberg finally.

  “If he’s working with people within our own organization, we’ll show our hand and alert them that we are on to them,” Kokk protested.

  “Surveillance has a high turnover of staff,” Holmberg said. “Let’s assume that his accomplices within our organization are colleagues with long service. I think it’s unlikely that you will find any among the new recruits at Surveillance.”

  For once, Kokk agreed with Holmberg. “Let me send a proposal to Gullviksson and the others in the executive,” Kokk said. “The Constitution Protection Division can then inform the Government.”

  “I’m not sure that the latter is necessary,” Holmberg muttered. “My task is to convince Rehn at the Constitution Protection Division that any involvement of politicians will only make it more difficult to act. This is an extreme situation that demands extreme measures from all o
f us.”

  Kokk knew that he had to obey his order, even if it meant going outside his jurisdiction and SÄPO’s constitutional mandate by not informing the Government of the situation. The Head of the Constitution Protection Division, Lars Rehn, would also be forced to commit some serious transgressions.

  Kokk understood why Holmberg was so reluctant to inform the Government. Holmberg was appointed by the Government and, as Agency Director, he could not absorb any further set-backs without risking his job. The previous year’s upheavals had used up all his brownie points. So now he was forced to undertake a cover-up. The top priority was to remove Martin Borg and any elements supporting him. The bad apples had be thrown away before the rot spread to the rest of the barrel.

  Kokk concluded his conversation with Holmberg. It was nearly midnight and the streets were almost deserted.

  He took a paper tissue from his jacket pocket and blew his nose before sitting in the back seat of a taxi. One could criticize Anders Holmberg for many things, but not for making the job at SÄPO boring.

  The news struck Martin Borg like a bullet. For a brief moment, he was oblivious to his surroundings. Tor Hedman was in the custody of County CID. Despite his instructions, the fool had decided not to come to the meeting place. Instead, he had acted on his own impulses. Something that was doomed to fail.

  Everything now depended on getting Hedman quickly transferred to SÄPO. The danger that he would talk sooner or later was considerable and therefore the transfer was a priority.

  The only person that could take the decision to transfer him to SÄPO was Chief Prosecutor Julén and Borg needed help to get the stubborn prosecutor to make that decision. Kokk would be equally, or even more, eager to get his hands on Hedman. The previous year’s disastrous operation would tempt the otherwise excessively cautious Kokk to seize an opportunity to redeem himself. Kokk was much more ambitious than he liked to admit, and Martin had started to see through his façade. Once pushed out into the cold, it was impossible to get back in. It also applied to Thomas Kokk.