The head of Regional Crime’s little power games were as predictable as they were irritating. He ought to do what Bergh did and take care always to arrive late himself, just to even things out. And stick a discreet finger up at Kollander.
“You can go in now, Peter,” Kollander’s secretary said, and at that moment the head of the Intelligence Unit appeared in the doorway.
“Morning, Peter!” Bergh exclaimed as he pushed his glasses up onto his forehead. “Do we know why?” Bergh said in a low voice as he nodded toward their boss’s door. Molnar shook his head.
“Not exactly, but I saw Oscar Wallin in the corridor a little while ago.”
“Oh shit,” Bergh muttered.
“Well, it was only a matter of time before Golden Boy showed up. Shall we find out what’s on his mind?”
As if we didn’t already know, Molnar thought. Bergh knocked on the door and opened it without waiting. Staffan Kollander was seated behind his very large desk. As usual, he was impeccably dressed in a smart, well-pressed white shirt with heavy cuff links that matched the gold of his epaulets.
Molnar and Bergh exchanged a discreet glance. Neither of them was in uniform, nor was the fourth person in the room. A fair-haired man with a boyish face, who was leaning with just the right amount of nonchalance against a low filing cabinet over by one wall.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Kollander said. “You both know Deputy Police Commissioner Wallin, don’t you?”
“Of course, absolutely. Hello, Oscar!” Both Molnar and Bergh nodded to Wallin.
Wet-combed hair, clean-shaven, wearing a three-piece suit, Molnar noted. A bit of a difference since they worked on patrol together. But that was, what, ten, twelve years ago? Shit, he was starting to get old. If he wasn’t careful he’d end up like Bergh, gray and overweight, with a beer belly so big he could hardly see his cock when he went for a piss. Molnar straightened up unconsciously and tensed his taut chest muscles. Well, there was no immediate danger.
Oscar Wallin had made good use of the intervening years. He had been through senior-officer training and had done some extra courses at university. Then a stint at the International Court of Justice in the Hague, before ending up in the Intelligence Unit of National Crime. It was hardly surprising that Minister of Justice Stenberg had handpicked him; they were cut from the same cloth. Ambitious high achievers, media-savvy, and sufficiently ruthless to get wherever they wanted.
Molnar already had an idea why Wallin was honoring them with his presence.
What goes around comes around . . .
“Sit yourselves down.” Kollander gestured to the armchairs opposite him. “Deputy Commissioner Wallin and I have been having a very rewarding discussion. His investigative task sounds very interesting, and I’ve told him that we here at Regional Crime in Stockholm are naturally looking forward to a fruitful collaboration.”
Kollander turned to Wallin, who was still leaning against the filing cabinet.
“Oscar, would you like to say a little more?”
“Of course, Staffan.”
Wallin straightened up, took a couple of steps forward, and then sat down on the corner of Kollander’s desk. The head of Regional Crime’s upper lip twitched, a fleeting microsecond of disapproval. Molnar had to make a real effort not to grin.
“Minister of Justice Stenberg has given me a very clear task,” Wallin began. “The idea is to gather all manner of key competencies under one shared roof. A national knowledge center where resources are exploited fully rather than being spread out around the country. We can’t afford to have several parallel organizations doing their own thing.”
“And what do you want from us, Wallin?” Bergh interrupted.
For the second time in less than a minute Molnar came close to breaking into a smile. Fucking Bergh! He may be a desk jockey these days, but every now and then the street cop in him still shone through. Bergh had been a tough bastard in his day. Seriously tough.
Wallin gathered his thoughts quickly.
“Intelligence management,” he said curtly. “You are doubtless aware that other departments in the county have their own CIs. Cityspan, the licensed premises division, the narcotics squad, and plenty more besides. Not to mention my own former workplace, the Intelligence Unit of National Crime.”
Wallin smiled toward Bergh, but the look in his eyes was icy. The older man squirmed slightly but was wise enough not to respond.
“Sometimes the same CI reports to a number of different handlers, without their being aware that this is the case. This means that erroneous information from one CI risks being accorded far too much attention because the information is confirmed by several different police units, when their source is actually one and the same. And our intelligence material becomes less reliable as a result, as I’m sure you would agree, Bergh?” Wallin went on staring at Bergh for another couple of seconds, waiting until he gave a curt nod before turning toward Molnar.
“Apart from this, it sometimes happens that certain handlers withhold valuable sources. Some of whom could be exploited more efficiently.”
This time it was Molnar’s turn to try to appear unconcerned. He adopted a different strategy than Bergh and met Wallin’s gaze head-on. Without giving any sign that he would back down.
“Two of my coworkers will be coming over tomorrow,” Wallin continued. “They have the highest security clearance and I expect you to cooperate fully with them. We need the names and contact details of all of your CIs, without any nonsense. All of them. I hope I’ve expressed myself sufficiently and clearly?”
He paused and seemed to be waiting for a response from Molnar, who still didn’t move a muscle. Instead it was Kollander who interjected.
“Of course,” the head of Regional Crime said, and cleared his throat before going on. “As I said earlier, we’re all looking forward to our upcoming collaboration, Oscar.”
• • •
“Well, that’s that,” Kollander said when Wallin had left the room. “What do you both make of all this?”
“Well,” Bergh said, casting a quick glance at Molnar. “We had a feeling that something like this was in the offing. Our work with our CIs is second to none, and our results speak for themselves. As you no doubt remember, Wallin tried to muscle in when he was up at National Crime. Now he’s got enough influence to demand things instead of having to beg for them, cap in hand.”
“Mmm, I was thinking roughly the same. Our new Minister of Justice appears to have a lot of new ideas. We’ll have to see how things develop in the future.” Kollander straightened up slightly. “District Commissioner Swensk and I agree that the best strategy for the time being is to cooperate. But we don’t have to give them everything on a plate. In advance of a big holiday like this, perhaps now might be a good time to take a look at which members of staff have put in too much overtime, and give those who need it a few weeks off?” Kollander gave the two other men a pointed grimace.
Bergh nodded.
“I’ve got a few guys who need to go on a course. Ethics and Equality, the district commissioner’s favorite subject. What do we think?”
“Authorized,” Kollander said. “Get the papers sorted at once and backdate them a week or two and I’ll sign them.” He drummed his fingers on his blotter. “Now, on to our next subject: David Sarac. Have we heard anything from the hospital?”
“I spoke to his doctor this morning,” Molnar said. “Things are progressing, he’s up and moving about. But he still has big gaps in his memory. He doesn’t remember anything about the crash or what he’s been working on recently.”
“I see. Well, that’s unfortunate, to put it mildly.” Kollander laced his fingers together in front of him. “What does the doctor say?”
“That Sarac will certainly get better, but that there are no guarantees about how much better. Some memory gaps might well turn out to be permanent.” Molnar cast a quick glance at Bergh.
“And the CI? Janus?” Kollander turned to Bergh, who shook his head
.
“We haven’t heard anything from him since the accident. He’s probably lying low, seeing as he can’t contact Sarac. Waiting for someone to get in touch via the usual channels. Those are certainly the instructions Sarac ought to have given him.”
“I understand.” Kollander drummed his fingers on the desk again. “So we don’t appear to know why Sarac’s envelope in the safe was empty? Nor why we have no information at all about the true identities of his CIs, either Janus or anyone else?”
“No, I’m afraid we don’t,” Bergh said.
Kollander went on tapping. “Then we don’t have much choice. We shall have to make a formal report and hand the matter over to Internal Investigations. I daresay Dreyer will want to take charge of this case himself. But before we do that I have to inform the district commissioner about what’s happened.”
As if you haven’t already done that, Molnar thought. Operation Clean Threshold was probably already on the starting blocks.
“Well, we’ll have to be prepared to be questioned about what we know about Sarac and his working methods,” Kollander added. “Which is, of course, very little in my case. The way I see it, Sarac appears to have ignored a large number of the rules governing our work. And chose to see his successful results as some sort of carte blanche to do pretty much as he liked. Perhaps we’ve already given some thought as to his suitability and future here at Regional Crime? Documentation that might support a discussion of that nature?”
Kollander looked at Bergh. Molnar noticed that the older man’s eyes seemed slightly unsteady. Shit, he had been wrong. Operation Clean Threshold was actually already under way, and Sarac was going to be its first victim.
“Well then, gentlemen!” The head of Regional Crime patted his desk gently a couple of times to indicate that the meeting was over. Molnar took a deep breath, then straightened up and made an effort to appear as calm as possible.
“There’s one other possible explanation for why we can’t get hold of Janus. A scenario that we certainly ought to consider,” he said.
“And what’s that, Peter?” Kollander leaned across his desk.
“Janus hasn’t heard from Sarac for three weeks, so he must have realized something’s happened. He may even have pieced things together after reading in the papers about a police officer being badly injured in a car crash. Either way, he’ll have worked out what’s going on by now.”
“I’m not sure I follow, Peter,” Kollander said. “Worked what out?”
“That there’s no backup. Sarac’s his only contact in the police. The only person who knows his secrets.” Molnar ran his tongue over his perfect teeth. “Think about it,” he said. “Janus is high up in the criminal hierarchy, we know that much. The information he’s given us has led to the biggest seizures we’ve made in the last ten years, which have done serious damage to organized crime. In other words, there are plenty of people who’d like to see him dead. Everyone around him, basically.” He paused for a couple of seconds to let what he was saying sink in.
“I know from experience that you don’t recruit that sort of CI with the crap money the force will pay, so the only way Sarac could have recruited him is by getting some sort of hold over him. A secret that Janus would do anything to hide. Something that means he’d rather risk his life as a CI for the police than have the secret revealed.”
A light lit up on Kollander’s desk telephone, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“But whatever Janus’s secret is, Sarac has kept it to himself,” Molnar went on. “He hasn’t shared it with anyone, hasn’t even written it down anywhere. Not as far as we know, anyway. I think Janus might have worked that out, and has decided to exploit the situation. Maybe he was doing just that before Sarac’s car crash.”
“You mean . . . ?” Kollander frowned.
Molnar nodded, and Bergh joined in.
“We have to consider the possibility that Janus simply doesn’t want to be found. That he’s prepared to go to great lengths to protect his secret. He might even be prepared to walk over dead bodies.”
TWELVE
Sarac opened the door cautiously. The guard was hanging around by the reception desk over by the elevators, at the other end of the corridor. He was talking to one of the nurses, saying something that made her laugh. Gray-green uniform, a Securitas beret on his head. Radio, baton, and handcuffs in his belt. Presumably there to protect him. But, if so, from what? From whom?
He unfolded the crumpled note again and read the new message on the back.
YOU’RE NOT SAFE HERE!!!
Just as with the earlier message, he couldn’t remember writing it. The past few days were hazy; he had been slipping in and out of consciousness. He had vague memories of being out of bed to go to the toilet, and of someone giving him an injection. But the rest was foggy.
He had dreamed about the snow-covered car again, and the man with the snake tattoo. He had felt the man’s fear, heard his voice and then seen him die, over and over again as the bullet hit the back of his head. But no new details had emerged, nothing that could help him understand what the hell was happening. Or who the man with the pistol was. The devil in the backseat.
Was it the same man who had been sitting in his darkened room, whispering about agreements and smelling of tobacco? Had that even actually happened, or was it just a migraine-fueled hallucination? He was inclined to think it was, but he couldn’t be sure. Not here.
Sarac looked at the note again. His migraine attack, absurdly, seemed to have helped a bit. He felt better, his head clearer than before. He had taken off the sling and freed his left arm. His shoulder was still tender but usable. His right leg, on the other hand, slid about of its own accord, and he couldn’t rely a hundred percent on his right arm either. But at least he could move about with the help of the aluminium crutch someone had left beside his bed.
He opened the tall, narrow wardrobe and pulled on the clothes he found inside. The jeans had been washed, no sign of the accident. The same with his socks and boots. There was no sign of his top or jacket, and he guessed the paramedics had been forced to cut them to shreds, so he had to keep the white hospital shirt on. He tucked it into his trousers in an effort to make himself look less like an escaped patient.
His keys and wallet were on the little shelf at the top, but not his police ID. One of his colleagues was probably looking after it for him—Bergh, perhaps? That seemed logical.
He couldn’t find his cell phone either, which actually troubled him more than his police ID. His phone contained all his contacts. Information that could help him remember. He would have to ask Molnar about it, call him as soon as he got home and had safely locked the door behind him.
Sarac heard the elevator ping and looked out into the corridor again. Two men in dark suits got out, and one of them started talking to the guard.
Somber faces, neither of them remotely familiar, but he still guessed they were talking about him. Sure enough, the guard pointed toward his door. Sarac felt his pulse quicken. He didn’t know who the men were, who they worked for, or what they wanted with him. Nor why their appearance should make his heart race.
The only thing he knew for certain, the only clarity that had emerged from the wretched haze of the past few days, was that somewhere inside his ravaged brain lay the answers to all his questions. Why he was here, what had happened in the hours leading up to the accident, and the reason for the ever-more-tangible feeling that he was in danger. Imminent danger.
I collect secrets . . . The question was, whose secrets?
The men in suits started walking straight toward his door, with the guard right behind them. Sarac took a deep breath. The message on the note had been right, he needed to get out of there, immediately!
He looked around the room, then stared at the window. There was a fire escape outside, he’d already spotted that. Six stories down on steep, snow-covered metal steps and frozen railings, leading down to a narrow alleyway.
He could hear the voices getti
ng closer in the corridor. Realized he had to make a decision. He grabbed one of the sheets from the bed and opened the window. Ice-cold night air hit his face, making him gasp with shock. He glanced down quickly into the darkness. It was just about possible. It had to be possible!
• • •
The door flew open and the two suited men walked into the room, closely followed by the uniformed guard. The men looked around, saw the empty bed, then the wide-open window.
“Shit!” the shorter one hissed. “He got out.”
The man ran over to the window and stuck his head out. Far below he could see something white flapping in the darkness.
“The fire escape,” he shouted over his shoulder. “I’ll go this way. Cut him off down in the alley!”
He swung his leg over the windowsill and climbed out as the guard and the other man spun around and started to run toward the elevators.
A minute or so later Sarac carefully opened the wardrobe door and laboriously slid out. He stifled a groan as his body protested. He grabbed the crutch, forcing the fingers of his right hand to grasp the plastic handle, then peered cautiously out into the corridor.
Empty, apart from one nurse at the far end by the reception desk. She had her back to him and seemed to be busy on the phone.
He crept out slowly and set off toward a glass door farther along the corridor.
Ward temporarily closed, a handwritten sign announced.
Sarac felt the door: unlocked—probably in case of an emergency evacuation. Thank God for Swedish health and safety regulations! He slipped quickly inside and limped along a narrow passageway that led to another, similar glass door.
The next ward looked much like his own, with the only difference that the lights were all switched off. The only light in the corridor leaked in through the windows or came from the emergency exit signs. It was also completely quiet. No voices, no telephones ringing, no machines humming, no alarms ringing. Just a ghostly silence that was broken a few seconds later by an ambulance siren. He needed to hurry; by now the men must have found the sheet on the fire escape and realized he’d tricked them.
MemoRandom: A Thriller Page 9
