Project Nirvana

by Stefan Tegenfalk

  Fortified by the coffee, he began making his way towards the car. No sign of life yet. After a while, he stopped. Behind two bushes, he glimpsed two men. They were up to something, but he could not see what it was. He also noticed that there were more cars. One was a big van. It was turning into a bloody car park. Then he saw the flames. The men disappeared and black smoke quickly spread. He heard the sound of engines starting and, from the bushes, he saw the van and another car driving back onto the gravel road. The easterly wind soon blew the smoke in Gunnar’s direction. He frowned as he tried to think. Had they intentionally set a forest fire?

  The cars drove at high speed on the gravel road and soon they would be passing him. He was damned if he would let them get away; he was going to get their registration numbers and call the police. These weren’t addicts; they were pyromaniacs. He moved closer to the road and hid behind a big rock. Now he would be able to see their number plates as they drove by. Seconds later, both vehicles speeded past. He managed to read the number plate of the van, but he had nothing to write it on. His memory after thirty years at Albert Setterwall was not at its best and when he really needed paper and pen he naturally did not have it. He looked around to see as if he could find something to write on. He found a solution. An engineer had to be innovative. He broke off a twig and drew the letters and digits of the number plate in the muddy earth by the side of the big rock. The rock would be his landmark.

  As soon as the vehicles were out of sight, he hurried towards the smoke. He stopped in surprise after a few metres. It was a car that was in flames. The heat and smoke hit him like a wall, so he was forced to cover his mouth. Cautiously, he approached the flames. He circled around so that the wind was at his back. He glimpsed something in the car and tried to focus his eyes, despite the heat. He took a few more steps, despite the risk of the petrol tank exploding. Then he saw what it was. The horrific sight made him stumble backwards. The body inside the car was burning like a human torch. The mouth and eyes were black holes. The charred body was sitting upright and the face was twisted into a grotesque, tormented expression. His chest stabbed with pain and he had to sit down quickly, with his heart in his throat. A dark blue cloud soon enveloped the car. He had to get away from the toxic smoke. Gunnar got to his shaking legs and took a few steps away from the car. He had to call for help. Now he appreciated the usefulness of mobile phones, which until now, he had rejected.

  The mud and stones by the river made it difficult to run. He tripped several times and fell so badly that he almost couldn’t get back up. Something was wrong with his foot.

  Limping, he continued to follow the Bränninge river. He was forced to stop and rest several times, so it was more than thirty minutes before he finally made it onto Nyköpingsvägen.

  After a few moments, a car approached from the north. Gunnar walked to the centre of the road and started to wave his arms. The car slowed down at first, then it accelerated and swerved around him. Gunnar looked at the disappearing car in astonishment. Then another car approached from the opposite direction. The red Nissan slowed to a standstill and Gunnar limped up to the driver’s door.

  “You have to call the police,” he gasped.

  An elderly lady looked anxiously at Gunnar through the window glass. “What’s that?”

  “Call the police and the fire service, right now!”

  “Whatever for?” she asked, looking around.

  “There is a car on fire at Länna lake. Just do as I say.” Gunnar pulled open the driver’s door so that the woman would realize that he was serious.

  “Do you have a mobile phone in there?” he asked, pointing at the lady’s handbag.

  She nodded and took out her mobile phone.

  “Give it to me,” Gunnar ordered and grabbed the mobile phone from her hand after she had dialled 112.

  “Send a fire engine, police and an ambulance to the Länna lake outside Södertälje,” Gunnar shouted into the phone. “There’s a body burning inside a car and I have the registration number of the ones who did it.”

  Fifteen minutes later, the first emergency vehicle arrived.

  Walter observed thomas Kokk. Kokk was obviously not the best poker player in the room.

  “What’s the problem?” Walter asked.

  “The last trace of Borg is from when he used one of his personal credit cards to hire a car in Södertälje,” Kokk explained.

  “How long have you known that?” asked Walter.

  “Just recently,” Kokk said, without further explanation. “There has been, however, a new development.”

  “Indeed?” Äsa Julén remarked; even she was becoming irritated by the scanty revelations of information.

  “The car that Borg hired went up in flames next to a lake in Södertälje. According to the chassis number, we identified his Volkswagen Golf as the same hire car. A charred corpse was found in the vehicle.”

  A brief silence. Then the room erupted with low murmers.

  “When will we be able to verify that it is Martin Borg in the car?” asked Julén, cutting off the hubbub.

  “As soon as the DNA tests are complete,” Kokk answered.

  Julén shook her head, increasingly irritated. “Yes, I realize that. When will the DNA results be ready?”

  “We’ve sent our own forensic technicians to the scene and have also requested assistance from the National Laboratory of Forensic Science,” Kokk replied. “Perhaps in a few hours, depending on how quickly SKL processes the evidence.”

  “Do we know when this happened?”

  “Yes, we also have a witness to the incident. The witness saw the offenders leave the crime scene and had the presence of mind to write down one of the number plates.”

  “Who’s the owner of the vehicle?”

  “We don’t know yet,” replied Kokk. “The witness can’t find the spot where he wrote down the number plate. Apparently, he wrote it in the mud and we are expecting a storm soon, so there is a risk that we may not find it.”

  “Pull in all your personnel and do a blanket search of every inch of the area.” Walter said.

  “But that’s impossible . . .”

  “I see two candidates for the victim in the car,” Walter interrupted determinedly. “Leo Brageler or Martin Borg. My best bet is Borg.”

  “Why?” Jonna asked.

  “Because Borg is a liability and a potential risk,” answered Walter. “They know that we have our eyes on Borg, who is now the weakest link. They kept Brageler alive in the building and there is no reason to kill him now.”

  “Perhaps Brageler was no longer of any use to them,” Jonna suggested.

  “Maybe. But then they would hardly get rid of him by torching him in a car hired by Borg. I’m more inclined to believe that they have moved Brageler. We still don’t have any leads as to who they are or what their agenda is. Something is driving them. Something bloody important that is making them nervous, so they are taking unnecessary risks. Even killing their own.”

  “Despite the appearance of a criminal organization, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Julén said, fidgeting nervously with her pen. “It doesn’t have to be an organization. It could be a few individuals . . .”

  “This is a well-informed group of extremely dangerous people, whose identities are unknown to us,” Walter interrupted. “Unknown, at least, to County CID. Perhaps SÄPO has something to tell us?”

  “If we do, we’ll let you know,” Kokk answered briefly.

  “I thought as much,” said Walter and threw the Chief Prosecutor a resigned look. Julén quickly averted her gaze and returned to reading some papers.

  She could teach the others how to play poker, Walter thought, tossing his pen onto the table.

  In her wildest imaginings, Jonna would not have believed that the democracy she had pledged to protect harboured such ruthl
ess elements. Conspiracy theories were one thing, but this was really sick. She could not comprehend what was in the minds of these individuals, nor what was driving them. She didn’t have any theories. If she were still working at RSU and had been so incapable of formulating an analysis, she would spend the rest of her tenure fetching coffee for the other analysts.

  If they discovered the cause that Martin Borg had espoused, perhaps they would find an answer. If it was a group they were looking for. It might just as well be random accomplices, not an organized group. The more people involved, the greater the risk of detection, a fact that contradicted Walter’s theory about a large organization. Unless they were fanatics. Individuals not motivated by personal gain.

  She sat in the well-worn visitor’s chair as Walter closed the door behind her.

  “SÄPO know a lot more than they are saying,” he said, walking to the window. He gazed down at the street.

  “What makes you think that?” Jonna asked.

  “They almost always do. They never reveal more than is necessary. I think there’s a link between the man that died in detention last year and Martin Borg, other than the fact that he was interrogated by Borg.”

  “Such as?” Jonna asked, interested.

  “What was the strongest motive for Borg’s line of investigation into Drug-X?”

  Jonna looked at Walter thoughtfully.

  “Well, it was his interest in the Islamic terrorists,” she said.

  “Yes, he had an excessively zealous conviction that they were behind everything.”

  “So?”

  “I think you understand,” Walter said, turning around.

  At first, Jonna did not understand, but after a little thought she started to understand Walter’s implication. She had read about organizations that had attempted to promulgate anti-communist feeling during the Cold War. Defenders of Western democracy, a kind of modern-day Knights Templar. In this case, however, the communists were not the enemy.

  “You mean that Borg belongs to a type of secret brotherhood?”

  Walter did not answer.

  “With a holy mission,” Jonna continued with her line of reasoning, “to defeat Muslims?”

  “Not necessarily a brotherhood,” Walter said, “even if there are Christian sects in Sweden which fit that profile nicely. I think it’s more likely that the organization’s mission is to prevent the spread of Islam. In particular, on European soil. And they are prepared to give their lives for the cause.”

  “SÄPO knows of this organization?”

  “Most likely,” Walter said. “They could be accused of many things, but occasionally they are good at what they do. Especially with regard to keeping quiet.”

  Jonna raised her hands. “How are we supposed to crack this case if SÄPO keeps us in the dark?”

  Walter gestured for Jonna to join him at the window.

  “Do you see the people walking down there?” he said, pointing down at Bergsgatan.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Do they care what we do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Does it really matter what we do tomorrow?”

  Jonna looked at Walter puzzledly.

  “In today’s society, nobody cares any more,” he carried on. “As long as the internet and texting is working, the rest of the society can crumble and fall.”

  Jonna did not know what to answer.

  “Do you know what I really wish for?”

  She guessed that he wanted to turn the clock back thirty years to a time when the internet and mobile phones did not exist.

  She shook her head instead.

  “To think differently,” he said. “I am not talking about rational thought, rather the subconscious. I wish I was so stupid and so uninterested in life that I could sleep peacefully every night. Just close my eyes and let go. But it’s never going to happen. The entire weight of this shambles is already resting on my shoulders and there won’t be any sleep until at least four o’clock tomorrow morning. This is not a job, it’s a way of life. If you can call it a life.”

  “I thought that one learned in time to divorce police work from one’s private life,” Jonna said.

  Walter laughed. “Possibly, if you have a normal, well-adjusted personality. Which I don’t.”

  Jonna was not sure where Walter was going with this. It felt as if she was on a TV quiz show with multiple-choice questions.

  “You may be investigated,” said Walter, changing the subject yet again. He threw a document onto the table in front of Jonna.

  She picked it up and examined the contents. Actually, she was not at all surprised; she had been waiting for this. The only thing that surprised her was how quickly it had happened.

  Gunnar Tillenius looked confused. He could have sworn that this rock was his landmark. Yet there was no sign of any markings on the ground. The wet snow on the ground would soon wash away what he had written. If he ever found it.

  The police officer looked at Gunnar with concern. “We’ve searched around all the big rocks by the side of the road and haven’t found any traces in the mud.”

  “I’m sure that it was this rock,” Gunnar said and pointed at a one-metre high boulder by the side of the road.

  “But there’s no mud to write in here,” the police officer replied. “Just grass.”

  Gunnar was having difficulty concentrating. He could not shake off the image of the burning body. The grotesque, gaping grin and the black eye sockets were etched on his retina. The policeman had to repeat his question.

  “What colour was the van?” the police officer asked, for the third time.

  “Blue, or maybe red,” said Gunnar.

  “Blue or red? That’s quite a difference,” the policeman said.

  “Perhaps it was dark green.”

  “Perhaps it was white?” the police officer suggested.

  “I don’t think so,” Gunnar said.

  “And the saloon car?”

  “Could be any colour.”

  “Did you notice the make of the car or the van?”

  Gunnar looked at both police officers for a moment.

  “No,” he said. “I don’t possess a car and have never been interested in cars. Certainly not different makes of cars. Except for Ford, of course.”

  The police exchanged glances.

  “Do you think I am making the story up?” Gunnar raised his voice.

  “Of course not,” one of the police officers said. “We understand it is difficult to remember . . .”

  “For someone of my age?” Gunnar finished the sentence.

  The officer shook his head. “After someone has experienced something as disturbing as this,” he said, lowering his notepad. “We have a victim-support team attached to the police, which helps people who have witnessed traumatic events to get therapy and process their experiences.”

  “That can wait,” Gunnar grunted. “We have to find that rock.”

  “You can’t remember a single number or letter from the number plate?” asked the officer one last time.

  Gunnar shook his head. As he lifted his eyes, they settled on a rock a little farther into the forest. Behind it was a small fir tree, which he was sure he had gone past. What if he was mistaken and the place was farther from the road? He racked his memory and then hurried towards the other rock.

  He was right. He walked around it and saw his inscription in the clay. The ground was getting wet and he had difficulty reading it.

  “Over here!” he shouted to one of the uniformed police. “Can you read what it says?”

  A woman police officer ran over to him. She bent down.

  “Yes, I can read it,” she said and took out her notepad. Gunnar felt a large weight fall from his pounding chest.

/>   Leo did not know how long he had been in the vehicle. He lay in darkness, but was not alone. Something was next to him. He knew what it was – it was Death. This was a special feeling and he had experienced it several times. It was tangible and it enveloped him. He had worked with it in Project Nirvana and it had become a part of his life. Finally, it had taken him in a direction he could never have anticipated.

  Now he was to blame for another person’s death. Alice McDaniel. They had assured him that she would not be hurt. He had looked into the old man’s eyes and they did not lie.

  It couldn’t be her. Leo dismissed the thought.

  For a while, he had believed rescue was at hand. There were loud voices outside the vehicle and he had thought he heard a struggle. He had hoped it was the police. But then everything went quiet. Then it came. Death.

  Perhaps his kidnappers had disagreed about something. Whether they were going to get rid of him now or continue as planned. He realized that this day would be his last. If he was to make it out alive, it was up to him now. Not because the thought of death scared him; that would come as a welcome liberation. But he had to live a little longer. He had something to finish.

  He could not give back what he had taken from so many. Similarly, he could not bring back Cecilia and Anna. In one second, or perhaps just a tenth of a second, their lives had changed forever. One extra-long hug or no hug at all; that would have saved their lives. If Anna had just driven a little faster, or a little slower, they would never have met the car on the bend. All of those factors. Had their fate already been sealed and predetermined? Was that the meaning of life? As a scientist, he did not pay any heed to superstition or “higher powers”. He believed in fact, the result of logic. Yet he couldn’t figure out how a split second could take the life of two people. Something so abstract and fleeting as a mere second of time.