by Jon Stenhugg
*
That afternoon Sara and Sven walked around the block to the headquarters of the National Security Service. Once inside she loosened her dark overcoat, revealing the fitness of her figure to the guard ogling her through the blast-proof security window. As she looked away in disgust, she saw the familiar figure of Niklas Shoreman exiting on the other side of the sluice that formed one of the last barriers between the real world and the world where lies were often moulded into the truths of tomorrow.
Shoreman tried to conceal his face under his hat, aware that government ministers were forbidden to interact with government workers, a requirement supposed to insure against political interference in the day-to-day running of this very small country.
Sara watched as he left through the reception, quickening his stride as he approached the large door of ancient oak concealing a thick steel armour-plating. What could the Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs possibly be doing here in the heart of Spooksville? She regained her thoughts when the guard told Sara and Sven to move through the airtight sluice to be admitted to their meeting with Lars Ekman.
The meeting with the NSS was like a miniature class reunion, warm and friendly. Lars Ekman was accompanied by a young agent who spent a few seconds more than usual shaking Sara’s hand.
Ekman never wore a tie, but still made everyone else in the room feel like they were underdressed. He recalled the case involving a group of Neo-Nazis trying to assassinate an old, mentally retarded woman, purported to be a child of an important WW2 Nazi war criminal.
“Do you ever hear anything from the Yank? What was his name, Hurtree?”
“Yes,” said Sara, “I heard from him the day he left Stockholm two years ago, and I just got a Christmas card from him. I liked that guy. He was a bit, you know, American, but he was fun.”
“I remember,” said Ekman, stretching his arms high over his head, exercising his back muscles as he usually did during meetings. “He was a little difficult, at least when it came to following orders, but he did help us with some background information which would’ve been quite difficult to get otherwise. We were fortunate in being able to keep the story from going public. I doubt we’ll be so lucky with the current case.”
As they joked about the aging CID Lieutenant, it occurred to Sara that Ekman’s laugh was designed for a poker game; controlled and deliberate, a social appendage to the rest of his personality. She wondered if there was a real Lars Ekman buried in the wiry body he kept under such extreme control. They all sat down and she went through the details of the murder of ex-Parliamentarian Hoffberg.
Ekman listened as he usually did, his two-dimensional face frozen the whole time, not asking a single question, just staring at her. He seemed to create a vacuum which could only be filled by telling him everything he wanted to know.
Sara finished by telling him about the maps with the coordinates indicating the place where the MS Sally had gone down, and his face twitched. She stopped for a moment and stared back. They just looked at each other for nearly a minute, neither of them budging.
“Was that all?” Ekman broke first.
“Not quite,” said Sara, “but it would be interesting to know if my case is involved in something you guys are doing. I mean, just so we don’t get all tangled up when we try to run after the killer.”
“Do you have any suspects yet?”
“Just the neighbour, Martin Spimler. He appears to have had both motive and opportunity. We don’t know if he’s got an alibi, since we still can’t find him. We’re tapping his telephone at home for another couple of weeks just in case he calls his wife. Also, I’m not sure about the wife of the murder victim. She discovered the body, and says she was speaking to a friend at the time of the murder. Someone she worked with before she quit her job, an Irishman named Delaney. And then we’ve got witnesses, several people who saw someone in a dark suit driving away from the house in a dark blue Volvo 242, but the description seems kind of bizarre for the time being. They seem to think it was a clergywoman driving the car, so it doesn’t help much yet. We’ve got a name and address for the car that matches the description, but it’s down in Trelleborg. Malmö will help question the owner. Nothing explains the maps.”
Ekman stood up, walked to a map of Scandinavia that filled one wall of the conference room and pointed. “This is where the MS Sally sank to the bottom. Sara, you said the maps described this area. Did you bring them with you?”
Sara took both maps out of her briefcase, last year’s Christmas gift from her grandmother, who had told her that all important people had a briefcase, if only to carry their lunch to work. “Fresh out of Forensics,” she said, pointing to each map as she put them on the table in front of Ekman. “Hoffberg, Spimler.”
She quickly explained where both maps had been found as Ekman glanced at them. He noticed the pencilled dot on Spimler’s map before Sara could tell him about it. He went to his desk and returned with a plastic ruler, measuring the distance between the dot and the two closest corners of the grid where it was located. He went to a file and returned with a printout of a picture of the MS Sally and the coordinates of where she lay on the bottom of the Baltic, then he measured again. And again.
The sinking of the MS Sally had put the entire nation into a state of mourning. Every single member of the trade union representing the Swedish police force in Stockholm had been aboard, and almost all had perished. Everyone in the conference room knew someone who had died on the MS Sally, and there was a self-imposed silence as they all remembered.
Sara was the first to speak. “Spimler, our suspect for the Hoffberg killing, is a diver. We know he was involved in a dive out there, working for a company called Nordic Underwater Technology Scanners. Maybe the map came from that dive.”
“If that’s true, then there’s a problem. This dot doesn’t show where the Sally is located,” said Ekman. For the first time Sara got to see Ekman as a problem-solver, his granite face now furrowed with questions. “It’s close, probably a mile away, but anyone using this dot to find the MS Sally would never find her. It’s too dark down there to see more than twenty yards. We did security checks on everyone who was ever out there, so he’d be on file here.” As he finished speaking he nodded to the young NSS agent sitting next to him, who left the conference room.
Ekman looked at the file in front of him. “Hoffberg was on the Defence Committee for his political party, and he was involved in several investigations regarding the sinking, even those about protecting the wreck from being approached by anyone above or below water. While he was a Member of Parliament he would have had access to every secret there was regarding the MS Sally, and there might be one or two.”
“The Minister for Defence said that Hoffberg had posted some secret information about the investigation on his website. I don’t suppose we’ll be able to find out more about those secrets, in order to help us solve the murder?” Sara asked.
“No,” said Ekman, “of course not. But from what I understand, it’s why he decided not to run for office again.”
Sara brought her hand up to cover her lips, trying to conceal her chagrin, but her eyes flashed anger as she continued, “Well, we have several connections to Estonia. Hoffberg and Spimler took a trip there in June. We’re still tracking down what they did. Then there’s the Volvo we’re looking for. It’s owned by a company registered in Estonia, Teknologikka. The driver is listed as Kim Lemko. We also have another possible suspect, the murder victim’s wife. She was speaking to an Irishman just before she went home on the day of the murder. I was wondering if you had any information on him. He’s coming in tomorrow for questioning.”
“Do you mean Delaney?” asked Ekman. “I looked into that for you.” He looked over at Sven, who averted his eyes. “His father is in jail for robbing a bank, and suspected of belonging to an IRA splinter group. Call themselves ‘The New IRA’. Mostly just drug-smugglers who use bank thefts to supplement income when the Irish police intercept a shipment of narcotics.
I doubt you’ll find a political connection to make Delaney a suspect.”
“My money is still on Spimler,” said Sven. “He’s got motive and opportunity.”
“I still think the wife could be involved in some way,” said Sara. “She gave me some kind of story about a cleaning lady that doesn’t check out. The telephone number I got goes to a family in Poland. When we asked them about this Magdalena woman, they didn’t seem to know anything about her, or anyone else who cleans houses in Sweden. The phone number could have been wrong, but it still seems a little strange.”
“Magdalena?” Ekman demanded, as he looked up from the maps he was holding. “Was there someone called Magdalena involved in this killing?”
“We don’t know that yet, sir,” said Sara. “It’s just a name on a postcard I found in the Hoffberg house, and the explanation Kristina Hoffberg gave was that it belonged to her cleaning lady.”
“Keep that name active in this case,” said Ekman, walking over to his filing cabinet. As he spoke the young NSS agent came back into the room, nodding his head to Ekman as he did so.
“Spimler checks out,” said the young agent. “Highest class available.”
“Well,” said Ekman, “I suppose you all have work to do. We do, anyway. Let’s keep each other informed on a regular basis. This case has the highest priority for us right now.”
Sven and Sara looked at each other, and rose to leave. “And Spimler?” asked Sven, looking straight into Ekman’s face “Can you tell us anything about the dives he did at the wreck of the MS Sally? Something that might help us find him?”
Ekman snapped back without hesitation, “I’ll let you know as soon as I have something I can release to you. The connections to Estonia are important. Find out any details about the victim or any of your suspects who went there, and why.” He blinked slowly and drew a breath. “I’ll do some checking with the Defence Department. I’ll talk to people who wouldn’t answer you if you asked them anything and we can meet again tomorrow. And Sara, nice to see you again.” He flashed a warm smile that caught her off guard.
Maybe Ekman is human after all.
*
Ekman was dialling a number as they left, and as the door closed behind her Sara heard him say, “Captain Peters? This is Lars Ekman of the National Security Service in Stockholm. Do you remember me?”
Sara had heard that name before.
Chapter 7
Ekman’s call from Stockholm caught Captain Charles Peters of the US Army CID staring at several yellowed suspension files spread out on his desk. They were all about a case soaked in the dark waters of the Baltic Sea, when the MS Sally had sunk in the middle of a stormy night several hours after sailing from Tallinn, Estonia’s medieval heritage capital. For more than a year, thousands of grieving relatives and friends had persistently badgered the governments of four countries to provide a definitive answer as to why the ship had gone down.
A month ago an informant had tipped off one of Captain Peters’ field agents working in Estonia that a large sum of money had been paid for the operating manual to a Russian Shkval torpedo. In Western defence circles they were sometimes called Squalls because of the noise they made on sonar devices. For those who feared them they were known as Rocketfish.
For Captain Peters this was the first time anything tangible had surfaced with regard to the events leading to the end of so many innocent lives. It might be nothing, just a random event with no connection to his case, or it could bring him back to the cold, windy night in September when he’d called the hotline to Swedish Customs. Captain Peters was determined to find out which was correct.
Among the passengers who’d lost their lives was one of his own field agents. There had been accusations of faulty workmanship on the MS Sally, suggestions that a rogue wave had broken onto her bow, stripping away the bow visor that opened onto the car deck, and even a mysterious explosion which theoretically had blown a hole in the bottom of the hull, sending her to the bottom in record time.
Very little in the way of conclusive evidence was ever found, in spite of millions of dollars spent trying to contain speculation about conspiracies. Television talk shows in the Baltic countries fuelled public imagination and several pseudo-documentary films had been produced suggesting bizarre theories for the source of the disaster.
While he listened to the man on the other end of the phone, Peters held the file containing five pages of the secret report which would have put a stop to all the public questions in Sweden. He weighed it in his hand, hoping to get closure.
“We’ve spoken to each other before, Captain Peters. My name is Lars Ekman from the Swedish National Security Service. You might remember our last contact a few years ago regarding your predecessor, a retired army lieutenant, John Hurtree,” said Ekman.
Peters drew a quick breath. “OK, what’s he done this time? Last I heard he was back in the States.”
“Yes, I suppose he is. I’m not calling about him. It’s about a telephone call you made last year to the Swedish Customs, about some smugglers making a technology shipment from Tallinn, you know, in Estonia? We have a case that may be related to the ship that went down and I was wondering if we could meet and perhaps compare notes.”
“Funny that you should call about that,” said Peters, closing the files marked Top Secret. “I was just, uh, thinking about that case. It might be interesting to compare notes, so to speak. Who travels? I’ve never been to Stockholm.”
“OK, I made the call, so I’ll arrange for your ticket if you pay your hotel and living expenses,” said Ekman.
“That sounds fine to me. We work on a tight budget down here. The criminals always seem to have more money than we do.”
“Yes,” said Ekman, “it makes you wonder where they get it all from. Captain Peters, can I ask you if you ever work with the CIA?”
“If I did I’d never tell you. Anyway, we usually have different agendas. We’re not spooks at the CID.”
“Fine. Can you be here this week?”
“I can fly out tomorrow. I won’t need a hotel.”
“Good, I’ll make the arrangements. My office will send you the flight details. I’ll be at the airport to pick you up. It’ll be good to finally meet.”
“Sure will, what’s the weather like up there? It’s raining like crazy here.”
“Crisp, I think you say in English,” said Ekman. “Frosty in the morning, cold enough to make you look for your winter jacket and gloves when you’re in the shade, warm enough to make you take them off in the sunshine. And the sun is shining into my office right now, but you never know up here.”
*
There was no sun at street level for Sara Markham. Glad she’d worn her jacket, she felt the chill of the afternoon as soon as she’d left the NSS wing to walk around the block to her own office. This part of Stockholm included several city blocks devoted to justice. From here it was a four-block walk to the offices of the District Attorney, ending with a spurt within sight of the King’s Bridge, where the wind seemed to blow every day of the year.
Sara needed to request an extension of the wiretap on Kristina Hoffberg’s telephone, and she thought meeting up with Cantsten would give them a chance to get off to a better start. She found Cantsten’s room with no trouble and knocked as she walked through the open door.
Sara wondered if Cantsten’s desk had been built with a device which repelled documents, pushing them automatically into the appropriate binders. Sara’s own desk looked like a mess to others, although she had it so well organised in her mind she never wasted time looking for a document.
Cantsten was reading her computer monitor, which cast two square, blue images onto her glasses. The bookcase behind her was full of binders in tidy rows, grouped by colours, all of them exactly one inch from the outer edge. Sara was sure Cantsten’s brain didn’t contain grey matter like the rest of the human race; in her head everything would be divided into black-and-white compartments.
“Yvonne,” said Sara.
Cantsten kept her face focused on the screen, although Sara could see her eyes had shifted to briefly rest on her.
“Could I speak to you about the Hoffberg wiretap?”
“Yes,” said Cantsten, without looking away from the monitor. “You can enter any new evidence on a Form B22 and leave it in my inbox. I’ll take care of it when I can.”
“Actually I was hoping we could speak about it.”
“Form B22,” said Cantsten. “In here.” She pointed to her inbox without looking up. For a long, raging second Sara hoped Cantsten would someday give her a reason to be investigated. She promised herself that she would be very, very thorough if she ever got the chance.
“OK,” said Sara, “B22. Inbox. I’ll try to find time to do it between catching crooks.” She could see Cantsten as a child, spending hours playing with her mother’s button box, sorting them by the number of holes, then by colour, and then size. Sara braced against the wind on her way back, imagining Cantsten with her favourite buttons on a rug. She was sure she could hear Cantsten’s thoughts trying to imagine how the holes had been made.
*
Martin Spimler’s wife had spent another lonely, tearful evening going through her husband’s things in an effort to find a clue to his whereabouts. She’d opened a bottle of wine and rummaged through the contents of his desk. It contained nothing that would divulge where he would be, no addresses or telephone numbers for secret girlfriends, or what would have been worse for her, boyfriends. Still, he was gone, and with no explanation.
Behind the desk there was an entire bookshelf filled with Martin’s reports, going back nearly ten years. He’d kept at it even when he left the military and began working for a private company that worked mostly out in the North Sea oilfields. Almost all the reports were simple dive logs, recording the mission, the weather and water conditions, the tools used and the results. She went through them, seeking an answer, even a hint of some kind of mistake that could be made while operating hundreds of feet under the surface, hoping against the darkest explanation to her husband’s disappearance, but willing to accept whatever surfaced.
