by Jon Stenhugg
The PM’s political secretary met him on the other side of the revolving door. Ekman’s sneakers squeaked on the highly polished linoleum floor as they hurried to the lift, then down the corridor to the unmarked door of the Prime Minister’s office.
Ekman swallowed hard as he finished reading the letter. He looked first at the PM, then the political secretary as he asked, “And you don’t know who this person is?”
“That’s your job,” said the PM, shifting his heavyset body from foot to foot, “and I want an answer quickly.”
“I’ll try,” said Ekman.
“You’ll do it,” said the PM. “I’m moving out to my house in the country until we know more. You have complete run of the Parliament Building – my secretary will assist you.” The PM’s face went beet-red and his shirt collar suddenly seemed two sizes too small. “I want the person who wrote this letter identified, and this threat neutralised. I want it done now!” His fist struck the desk and the sound was like a pistol shot.
“Yes, Prime Minister,” said Ekman, and he and the political secretary left the office.
They ran, dodging puddles left from an early rain that day, heading for the bridge to the Parliament Building on the other side of the small channel of water between the two buildings. Fishermen were casting their lines into the channel, hoping for a salmon, and Ekman wove between groups of tourists busy making video proof they’d visited this beautiful European capital. He began asking questions as they ran, the secretary panting to catch his breath as he answered, “No, I haven’t looked at the security tapes yet. I was waiting for you.”
“Has anyone else handled the letter besides yourself and the Prime Minister?” asked Ekman.
“I don’t know,” wheezed the secretary as they crossed the bridge over to the island where the Parliament Building was located. “It was in his mailbox. Earlier today. When he returned.” The political secretary stopped, bent over as he held his stomach, barely able to speak; then added, “From France. In the basement. I’ll show you. When we get there.”
*
Lars Ekman and the secretary started the video cassette of the camera viewing the mailboxes of the Members of Parliament, sent the security officer out for a long coffee break and watched a long string of unchanging frames.
The secretary was mopping his brow, and sweat stained his shirt. After a few minutes Ekman used the fast forward button and even more unchanging frames rolled by until they saw a figure dressed in a brown windbreaker walk by the PM’s mailbox. He made a quick movement of his right hand to throw an envelope into the mailbox, then continued out of sight of the camera.
“There,” the two men shouted in unison, “that must be him.”
“It was this morning, 9.20,” said the secretary. “We can get the security officer to help us with a list of anyone in the building.”
“Yeah,” said Ekman, his voice hesitant as a question silently formed in his mind. Why doesn’t this guy care about being seen? Then he replied to the secretary, “Talk to security. I’ll have the prints on the letter examined to see if I can get an ID off it. Is there anyone who comes to mind when you see the tape?”
“No,” said the secretary, “no one I can think of. It looked like it was a man, though.”
“Oh, that’ll make it easy,” said Ekman. “And what’s the percentage of women who have access to this building?”
The political secretary turned away from Ekman, noting the irony of his reply, but choosing not to answer the question. “I’ll talk to security. I need your telephone number,” he said before they parted.
*
Chief Inspector Ekman exited the Parliament Building running full-out, crossing the bridge to the other side of the channel. He held up his police ID in front of a number three bus on its way towards City Hall and it squealed to a stop. In less than fifteen minutes he’d be in his own office, which would provide him with shelter from the biting wind blowing off the icy lake outside. He explained to the few passengers that he’d commandeered their bus, and that it wouldn’t stop at its usual stops.
He called the resident forensic scientist as the bus droned up the incline and turned off-route onto Polhem Street, shouting into his telephone that he needed something dusted for prints immediately. The bus flew past the entrance to the NBI, rounding the corner to enter Kungsholm Street, and stopped in front of the unmarked door to the building housing the Swedish National Security Service, the NSS, where he would be given access to several layers of security. He cursed as he felt the pressure of each escaping second.
“Real Madrid one, Barcelona zero,” said the forensic scientist, who knew what Ekman did on Saturdays.
“Prints,” shouted Ekman, “and fast. We have three identified already. The Prime Minister, his political secretary, and my own. If you find any other prints on this letter, identify them if possible. Start with the register for Members of Parliament. I’ll be in my office, warming up and catching my breath.”
Ekman settled into his black leather swivel chair and was flipping through some info clips on Members of Parliament when his cell phone rang. It was the PM’s political secretary, who told him in a terse voice that there was only one person who could have put the letter in the PM’s mailbox, an ex-Minister of Parliament who had told the guards he had a meeting with an Opposition leader, and he was allowed in even though he had no valid ID badge. Leo Hoffberg had only been in the building for a few minutes, and had left in a hurry according to the security guards.
“Well, good.” Ekman looked away from his computer screen. “I’m having the letter checked for prints, and I’ll see if it’s him. When did you say he was an MP?”
“He, uh, resigned right after the last election,” said the political secretary. “But I’m not sure it will help us, even if we can establish it was Hoffberg who left the letter.”
“And why not?” asked Ekman.
“Because after we got back from the airport we got a call from someone at the NBI. He’s been murdered at his home near Stallarholmen.”
“What? And you wait until now to tell me this?” Ekman took the receiver from his ear and looked at the phone in amazement.
“We couldn’t know he was the one who put the letter there. And your people should know this anyway. Don’t you work together?”
Ekman chose not to answer. He stared at an email from the NBI that he’d just opened. He noted Hoffberg’s murder was still being kept out of the media spotlight, and journalists would not be fed their rations until just before the lunchtime news on Monday.
The political secretary continued, unhindered by the lack of response. “We’re in the middle of planning a speech for the PM to give on Monday to express our condolences for the family. My God, what does this mean?”
Ekman looked up to see the forensic scientist hurry into his room, waving a sheet of paper. “I’ve got an ID on the set of prints you asked about.”
Ekman told the secretary he’d call back later. “I’m guessing Leo Hoffberg,” he said.
“What do you need me for?” asked the scientist. “You seem to know the answers without the science.” He tossed the plastic bag with the report onto Ekman’s desk. “And Real Madrid’s winning, so eat your heart out.”
“Nothing like an intelligent guess,” Ekman replied with a smile, tapping his head. “And Barça still rules.”
Ekman dialled the direct number for the Prime Minister. “It’s Chief Inspector Ekman, Prime Minister. I think we’ve identified the man who left the letter in your mailbox.”
“You don’t seem to work very quickly, Chief Inspector Ekman,” said the PM. “I just talked to my secretary and he told me it must have been Leo Hoffberg. You know he was murdered, of course.”
“I do now,” said Ekman. “We were informed about Hoffberg’s death as a formality. I’m sure the NBI is working on it already. There’s a news blackout regarding the murder until Monday. Does this mean anything to you? Why would Hoffberg make such a threat?”
“I d
on’t know. We didn’t get along too well when he worked here as a politician. He was a member of the Defence Department Committee, and he, uh, well, he published certain classified information about the sinking of the MS Sally on his web page. We asked him to resign his post, of course. He kept up with his world peace crap, but I never imagined it could come to this. I’m planning on giving a speech about him.”
Ekman picked up the plastic bag containing Hoffberg’s threatening letter. “It says here Hoffberg put some kind of powerful bomb in the middle of the city.”
The Prime Minister didn’t answer, and Ekman was unsure his question had got through.
“Prime Minister?”
“Yes.”
“The bomb must still be in the centre of the city,” said Ekman.
“No, I don’t think there was ever a bomb at all,” said the Prime Minister. “Hoffberg was just threatening, banging his impotent little spear on his pathetic little shield, so to speak, hoping I’d give in and do whatever it was he wanted me to do. He was a bit of a fanatic, you know, but in the end just a harmless clown.”
“What if you’re wrong?”
“I’m not wrong. I’m certain Hoffberg was just bluffing, and now he’s dead. He can’t even succeed as an extortionist.”
“But you believed in the threat before you found out it was Hoffberg. What made you suddenly change your mind?”
“Ha! Just because it was Hoffberg.” The PM’s voice was arrogant, mocking. “He’d never have had the guts to try anything so foolish. I mean, it’s crazy, trying to force me into political decisions by threatening to blow up a city. Only Hoffberg would come up with such a ridiculous bluff. And now he’s dead, so we have nothing more to fear from him.”
“Yes,” said Ekman, “I agree. It is crazy. But maybe Hoffberg was, well, crazy.”
“He was an elected Member of Parliament,” said the Prime Minister. “That should be guarantee enough he wasn’t insane. Thank you for solving this so quickly, Chief Inspector Ekman. We’ll keep in touch. We’ve devised a plan to have the Parliament Building searched tomorrow without attracting attention, a measure we’re taking just in case. If we find anything then we’ll act on it, of course. Thank you again.”
“Prime Minister?” said Ekman as he heard the click which created an empty space between them. “I hope we won’t find out you had anything to do with Hoffberg’s death.”
Ekman went to a safe in the corner, twirled the combination and swung the door open. He withdrew a worn, blue file held shut by an elastic band which snapped as he opened it. The first page of the file was a report bearing the emblem of the Central Intelligence Agency of the United States, stamped Top Secret. The date at the top of the report was September 1st 1994. He flipped through several pages, shaking his head. When he reached a page with the words MS SALLY underlined, Ekman picked up the phone and punched three numbers. He massaged his temple. He went back to reading Hoffberg’s letter while he waited for Sven Peterson, head of the NBI, to answer. There was something very final about the letter, almost as if it didn’t matter to Hoffberg if his bluff worked or not.
*
Peterson was a man who was never more than two rings away from his cell phone. He answered almost immediately when he noticed Ekman’s name on the display.
“Hello, Ekman. I suppose you’ve seen the results – Barça’s getting smacked in the chops. I win, you lose. Where are you taking me for lunch?”
“There’s still time for me to win, but that’s not why I called. You’re working on a homicide, Leo Hoffberg. We just got involved. I need a briefing. Quickly.”
“I figured you guys might be interested, so I’ve kept it from the press for the time being. We’re not sure what happened yet – could be a domestic, could be a crazy person. We’ve only been on it for a few hours.”
“Who’s leading the investigation?” asked Ekman.
“The Terrier – you know, Markham, Sara Markham. She’s out there right now. Hoffberg was killed at home, out on Sela Island.”
“Let’s get together immediately. Hoffberg did something very bizarre before he was killed, and we’ve got a lot to do. Get over here right now.”
Chapter 3
Across the Atlantic, in a flat in Philadelphia, retired US Army CID field officer Lt John Hurtree was just waking up. He’d been sleeping better in the last few months after the nightmares about his last open case had finally been put to rest. He’d been cheated of the chance to see any criminals behind bars, but had been awarded a giant dose of satisfaction by revealing the identity of a child belonging to one of history’s most infamous mass murderers. Hurtree had never had any proof to satisfy anyone except himself, but with the help of a young and very pretty homicide detective in Stockholm, they had managed to put the pieces of his puzzle together.
His job as an investigator in the US Army CID was to deal with army crimes: beatings in the platoon, robberies from the PX, driving a tank while drunk, and occasionally a crime that involved the secret police from East Germany, the Stasi.
Hurtree reviewed his notebooks sometimes, wondering if some of the strange, unanswered questions still on his mind when on duty in Heidelberg would pop up as part of some background programme on the History Channel. There were several pages with Sweden written at the top of the page. Most ended in a series of question marks. He kept his notebook in a bookcase filled with books about the Second World War, jammed between a copy of Education for Death and several old vinyl records standing in their album covers: The Beatles, ABBA, the Rolling Stones, John Coltrane and the Mamas and the Papas. Hurtree liked nearly everything in the way of music. His simple apartment was furnished in the same way as his room at the Heidelberg barracks: Spartan and easy to dust.
As he pulled out his notebook, it opened to an entry with the name Schneller at the top of the page, followed by question marks. He’d studied the page many times, and it bore rings from moist cans of beer and glasses of whisky.
Hurtree sat down in a khaki armchair, a can of Guinness Export in his hand, so cold a slight fog left the hole in the top as he opened it, creating a sound similar to putting a round in the chamber of his Colt 45 automatic.
He poured the brown, foaming liquid into a tall glass and waited for it to turn into a drinkable meal. He examined his drawings of Schneller, an extremely efficient Stasi agent, and a man he had added to his notebook so many years ago.
Hurtree had used his talent as an artist several times when he worked as a detective for the US Army CID. He was often able to provide other officers with a useable sketch of criminals, enabling them to get a head start and leading to many early arrests.
Smudges on his drawing of Schneller couldn’t conceal the coldness in this criminal’s heart. Hurtree sometimes sat for hours on end, wondering what had become of the man who had always slipped through his fingers, running to his hiding place in Sweden, where it was suspected he had contacts very high up in the Swedish government, so well-placed his real identity was never revealed. Hurtree made his drawings one afternoon when he’d succeeded in locating Schneller during a stakeout, and he’d drawn the face twice, once as a man, and again as the woman Schneller had become after entering a dress shop in Munich.
Hurtree didn’t know it, but they were the only images which existed of Schneller, a man who had never been photographed. I wonder where you are today, you fucker? Hurtree stared at the drawings as he sipped his Guinness. I’ll bet you’re one of the few that managed to get away when the shit began to fly.
Last month he had spent several hours shopping for a Christmas card to send to Detective Markham, afraid to imply too much familiarity, but at the same time afraid his message would be too formal or emotionless. He wanted to tell her he thought of her as the daughter in the family he had never had.
He finally went to a shop specialising in Swedish gifts and looked for an appropriate card. He picked out one with a simple silver snowflake on a blue background, with no message inside. This was much better than the typic
al American Christmas card and the ten-word messages to fill almost every occasion, but with only one approved feeling at a time. He liked the idea of being able to use a few more words to convey the complexity of what he felt for Sara Markham. He asked the matronly shop attendant how to write Merry Christmas in Swedish, and went home to begin to write.
He sat with the card for days, filling several trash bags with the crumpled paper of failed attempts. Finally he took a piece of fresh paper and began from the end, ending his message with the Swedish phrase for Merry Christmas.
God Jul, he wrote at the bottom, then added single words above that seemed to describe what it was he felt: lonely, happy, smile, melancholy, fun, lonely, then placed the paper on the table. Hurtree stared at it, hoping something would fill the spaces between the words, and stroked the fuzz of his greyed military haircut, trying to coax more thoughts, but it was useless; he wasn’t much of a man for words.
Last week he’d sent the card with only two words, God Jul, scrawled just above his name. He tried to project all the other emotions in the blank space left on the inside of the card by staring at it for several minutes before he sealed it in the envelope, but was sure they couldn’t be conveyed. John Hurtree was far too old to imagine even a first chance with Sara, but the wistful memories her name brought back were enough to brighten up the dismal month of November in Philadelphia. He had fixed a sticker on the envelope with his name, address and telephone number, hoping maybe next year Sara would send him a card to warm his winter. Now, only a week later, he was about to get quite a bit more than that.
*
Sunday morning was on top of Sara before she was ready for it. The sound of the squeaky fan in the single heating element warming her room had kept her awake nearly all night. It was a dieter’s breakfast, even for someone used to nearly fasting in the morning. Sara’s room at the B&B in Stallarholmen had a tiny pantry with a noisy refrigerator and a miniature electric plate, a microwave oven and a water cooker. She could choose from coffee, tea or chocolate, all in powdered form. The milk for the tea was also white powder with a list of ingredients that seemed longer than the packet itself.
