by Jon Stenhugg
“Yes?” he said again.
“Torpedo. The word was torpedo, and it was written on a brochure from a trip to Estonia Spimler made a couple of months ago.”
“I’ll be there in about five minutes.” Ekman’s line went dead without him saying goodbye.
*
A minute later Sven came into the Hoffberg room and closed the door. “Ekman called. He’ll be here soon. He said something about a brochure Spimler’s wife left with us. I hadn’t heard of it, and you called Ekman before telling me?”
“Sorry,” said Sara. “You’ve been tied up with all this budget crap. It didn’t seem like much by itself, but after looking at some of the tapes of Hoffberg’s television appearances it seemed important. It might be nothing, but I thought Ekman would appreciate knowing about it.”
“As would I.” Sven’s face reddened. “And I’d like to know what you’ve managed to see on the tapes. Have you found Spimler yet?” he asked, knowing full well if Sara had done so, he would have been the first to know.
“No, not yet,” she said.
“So tell me about the tapes,” he said, as Ekman walked into the room. “No, on second thought, don’t say anything, just show both of us what you’ve found that is so important.”
“Welcome back to the real world,” Ekman said to Sven, settling into a chair. “Are your numbers adding up?” Then he turned to Sara and asked, “Did you ever hear anything from the Yank? What was his name, Hurtree?”
“Yes,” she said, “I just got a card saying he might be coming to Stockholm soon. Why?”
“No reason,” said Ekman. “Just thought I’d ask.” He picked up the telephone, dialled a number and spoke to someone on the other end. “Hello, Jyrki, it’s Lars Ekman in Stockholm. I need some help. We’re following up on two Swedish individuals who went through the airport in Tallinn, an SAS flight from Stockholm on Friday evening, June 14th and returning on Sunday afternoon, June 16th.” He rattled off two sets of numbers that gave the birthdates, the towns of their birth, the hospitals they were born in and their genders. These were the numbers given to Spimler and Hoffberg at birth and would be used to register everything about them: bank payments, parking tickets and income tax returns while they lived, and now even used to register the results of the Medical Examiner for Hoffberg.
On the other end the man called Jyrki was making notes and told Ekman he would call back soon. It took less than fifteen minutes. Sara and Sven were still looking at the tapes of Hoffberg when the call came in. Ekman jotted down a few notes, then turned to address the homicide officers.
“OK, this case just went into another phase,” said Ekman. “I’m going to give you some details which will keep you from spending a lot of time on dead ends in your investigation.”
“Can we take notes?” Sara asked.
“Yes, about these things you can take notes, but they are to remain between you and Sven. The rest of the team has to be steered around the problems which will arise for them since they won’t know what you know. Ready?”
Sara nodded, and Ekman began. “We know Spimler and Hoffberg went to the same hotel in Tallinn. They spent two nights there. They were called by a local person from Tallinn. They had lunch at the hotel restaurant on Saturday and were joined by a third person during lunch. The older guy, I guess that would be Hoffberg, paid for all three using his credit card, so you’ll find all that when you look into his financial background. The guy they met is a lowlife criminal who makes his living providing Swedes with all kinds of things: women, drugs, cars – whatever they need, he can get. According to my source in Tallinn, all three were being observed by someone we call Schneller, a person we know about from another source. So far I’m not sure why Schneller was involved, but it indicates something other than just a normal business transaction was taking place. Schneller used to work for the Stasi in Berlin before the wall came down. He speaks perfect Swedish. We also know he worked with a contact somewhere in the Swedish Parliament.”
“Do you know who the contact was?” asked Sara.
“We have a codename, yes,” said Ekman.
“Do we get to know it?” Sara was getting hopeful.
“No,” said Ekman.
“Don’t you want to finish seeing the tapes of Hoffberg?” she asked.
“No,” said Ekman. “We looked at him years ago, while he was still a member of the Defence Committee. I’m aware of his, uh, let’s say psychological profile, if that’s what you wanted me to observe.”
“Yeah,” said Sara. “He seems more like a psychopath than any of the weirdos I usually run into.”
“Yes?” said Ekman, and Sara knew he was pushing her into making a statement she might regret later on.
“I mean, he seemed to fit the profile of a psychopath – not a dangerous psychopath, of course, I mean, not the kind who goes around killing people, but a psychopath just the same,” she said.
“Most politicians are.” Ekman made Sara feel like a little schoolgirl again.
“But the word on the brochure, torpedo, does that mean anything?” asked Sara.
“What do you think?” he asked, looking into her eyes for the first time since he’d entered the room. “Have you found any way to interpret what that word might mean in your investigation?”
Sara felt like apologising for dragging him out into the rain just to inform her that she’d made no contribution at all. Her cheeks went red, and her tongue stumbled between her teeth, looking for an answer. “I’m not sure it relates to the murder at all, but it’s a strange thing to write on a brochure.”
“Are you sure Spimler wrote it?” asked Sven.
That did it. Sara felt devastated, and it seemed she’d been backed into a logical corner where the only way out was to admit complete defeat. “I’m sorry, Sven,” she said, then faced Ekman. “I’m sorry, really. It seemed important at the time, but right now it doesn’t seem to fit.”
“Don’t worry,” said Ekman.
Sven looked over at him, cocked his head to one side and said, “Find Spimler, or Lemko. And Sara, let’s get this case solved. Now. You’ve been at it for more than a week, and so far we’ve got nothing.”
“And don’t forget the background I just gave you.” Ekman put on his raincoat as he spoke. “It might save you some time.”
“Yes, thank you,” said Sara, as both men left. She went to the window and watched them as they left the building and began the walk around the block to the NSS wing.
She watched Ekman shaking his head as Sven kept gesturing. She couldn’t figure out whether the head-shaking concerned her or not, but it bothered her to have to admit to a problem she couldn’t solve on her own. It was obvious the word torpedo hadn’t surprised Ekman, but why the rush to get over to talk to her? He wasn’t even interested in seeing the tapes of Hoffberg.
Well, at least she’d kicked the information about the Russian word upstairs. If it meant anything then Ekman would know what to do about it. And she’d got something in return: the background about the trip to Tallinn, although she wasn’t sure it helped move her investigation further.
The Hoffberg tapes were still in her mind, and she decided to talk to Kristina Hoffberg about the state of her husband’s mind just before he’d been murdered. Hoffberg’s wife must have noticed something. Maybe she could remember some little detail which would get Sara started again. Then there was the question of the telephone number leading to Nowhereland for Magdalena. Sara called Kristina Hoffberg and left a message saying she’d be there tomorrow morning, and then made a hotel reservation in Malmö. After her talk with the widow, Sara would continue down south to Malmö and talk to the policeman who seemed to have so much trouble finding Lemko.
She knew Ekman’s interest in Hoffberg’s cleaning woman was somehow connected to a trip to Estonia. Even though the word torpedo had seemed to inject Ekman with a double dose of adrenaline, she still couldn’t fit her murder case into a box with all those dimensions, leaving her with only a thin lead to Trelleb
org and a hope Lemko would be the thread connecting all the divergent parts of her puzzle.
She also knew if her work started to involve the higher spheres of international politics, she ran the risk of being left in the dark, with the NSS leading her and her team by the nose until they closed the case at a time when it served the purposes of the current power structure, and Sweden’s Prime Minister.
*
Lars Ekman stared at the cover of the latest report about the search for a nuclear warhead in the centre of Stockholm, which was lying on the surface of his desk. He was the only officer remaining in the building, and had already exchanged pleasantries with the night watchman during his rounds. He had read the report three times. There were sections concerning each phase of the search Ekman had initiated – none were approved by his superiors, and none of it financed by the current budget.
First, there was the helicopter scan of the city, done at night to avoid public curiosity, and using the latest radiation sensors attached to the underside. The pilot had flown a grid encompassing the entire centre of Stockholm, first from north to south in swaths only thirty feet wide, then repeating the operation in swaths from east to west.
There was a surprising amount of illicit radioactive material that showed up during the scans. Ekman had been awakened four times during the week the helicopter search had taken place. Each time his heart raced as he awaited the news from the patrol car sent to the site, and each time his hopes had been dashed. The searches yielded only radioactive isotopes stolen from hospitals, as well as a box of discarded smoke detectors and two metal chairs thrown in a dumpster, later found to have been manufactured in China using discarded radioactive steel.
The section concerning the search of church steeples was just as gloomy. The NSS field agent assigned to the task had complained about the need to ascend and descend the tight, circular stone staircases inside the church steeples, and had demanded extra danger pay after stumbling on his first descent. There was an abundance of bizarre items found at the tops of the steeples: lunchboxes filled with the mouldy contents of lunches forgotten several years ago, wine bottles still waiting to be uncorked, several lewd magazines and large numbers of bats that seemed unwilling to share their space with the unfortunate officer tasked with the climbs. Nowhere had he found anything resembling the conical metal object he sought.
The search for cars still parked in the centre of the city since two days before Hoffberg’s death was also a dead end. The Parking Authority of Stockholm had a complete database of the six hundred cars disobeying the rigid parking laws of the inner city, and each car had been sought out and searched. Although the dead body of an Iraqi illegal immigrant had been found in the trunk of one of the cars, nothing looked anything like the photograph of the green cone, about three feet long.
Ekman rubbed his eyes again and leaned back in his chair. There seemed to be little hope of finding it. For an instant he tried to hope that Hoffberg had only been bluffing, that his threat had been a ruse, or that he had been unable to use the Shkval, which had almost certainly been in his possession. The hope failed. The photograph of the empty box found at the bottom of the Baltic, only a mile from the wreck of the MS Sally, told him Hoffberg’s threat was real. Hoffberg must have had access to the torpedo. It had to be somewhere in the city. If his threat was to be believed, it had to be armed.
Ekman’s private cell phone vibrated in his shirt pocket. He hoped it was a call from his girl friend, Rachel, but a quick glance at the display told him to shake off his exhaustion in a hurry. Spooked Rice, it read. It was CIA Station Chief Rice.
“Ekman,” he said.
“I know it’s late, but I couldn’t sleep, and I assumed you were in the same state. We saw the news about Hoffberg, and we know about the manual he bought in Estonia. He must have hidden our hardware. I want it back,” said Rice.
Ekman held his cell phone in front of him, shaking his head in disbelief.
“What makes you think we have it?” he asked.
“I know you’re looking for it,” replied Rice, “I tried to hire some special equipment from the University in Uppsala, and they said the police were using it. Funny we should both be needing the same equipment.”
“Pure coincidence,” snorted Ekman.
“Sure,” said Rice, “And the moon is made of green cheese. I’ve got men with scintillators combing the streets of Stockholm, looking for the same coincidence.”
“You know I can’t tell you anything,” said Ekman.
“Same here.”
“So if you were to find anything, by coincidence, would you tell me?” asked Ekman.
“You show me yours, I’ll show you mine,” said Rice.
“Agreed. Now let me get back to sleep.”
“We’re not sleeping until we find it,” came the answer, then a click as the call ended.
Ekman cradled his head in his arms as he fell asleep at his desk for the third night in a row, trying to imagine a new way to locate the weapon. Just before sleep swept away his awareness, he made a note to begin a search of the harbours on either side of the Old City the next day. Hoffberg had taken a torpedo. Maybe he’d just dumped it in the water somewhere.
Part 2
Chapter 11
The Prime Minister had moved the practical affairs of running the country to the office at his country home, bowing to complaints from his political secretary and Deputy Foreign Minister Niklas Shoreman, who both seemed to think Hoffberg’s threat shouldn’t be taken too lightly.
All three men sat in the PM’s private office, discussing how Hoffberg’s death could be used for their own political purposes. The Prime Minister was certain they could use it to sow disharmony among Environmentalist Party members, and perhaps get a number of new voters in this way. His political secretary agreed, but pointed out that such an attempt carried risks and could end up costing their party votes instead.
Deputy Foreign Minister Niklas Shoreman, usually a provider of brilliant political analysis, sat on the sofa, preoccupied with thoughts he didn’t share. A few of Shoreman’s contacts were ex-Stasi agents, now employed by the Russians. They’d informed him about the sudden interest in the nuclear-tipped torpedo, the Rocketfish, and that one of the shadowy figures involved in illegal arms smuggling had even been asked to provide details of the whereabouts of an ex-Stasi agent, codenamed Schneller.
Shoreman hadn’t told the agent who’d contacted him about Hoffberg’s threat, but he understood with total clarity what it meant. Living close to an armed nuclear weapon was not a choice he found acceptable. He felt certain Schneller was the killer in the Hoffberg case. He also knew it would be exceedingly hard to find him.
“Niklas,” said the Prime Minister, “We need your input on this. Your thoughts. Say something useful.”
“I was thinking about Hoffberg’s threat,” said Shoreman.
“Hoffberg is dead,” said the PM. “His threat died with him. Now how can we use it?”
Niklas Shoreman sat without speaking, still lost in his train of thought, when the PM interrupted again.
“Niklas? Ah, now I get it. You mean we should be thinking about whether or not we should make Hoffberg’s threat public, and use that. Excellent.”
“Well, not exactly,” said Shoreman.
“I see,” said the PM, “I see. We make it public and let the media paint him as a terrorist, which he actually was, more or less, then we say we got him before he could do anything, unfortunately being forced to kill him in the process. Case closed, zip-zap, another positive deed for us. Almost as good as using the long-time unemployed to clean up the oil spill on the west coast two summers ago. We reduced unemployment by nearly one per cent during that crucial month, and it didn’t cost us anything.” The PM sat back in his oversized easy chair, clearly pleased with his contribution.
“Actually, I don’t think we could do that,” said the political secretary, pouring himself another ample serving of the thirty-seven-year-old single malt Islay Scotch
whisky. “The police have already been interviewed on television about the killing. If we come out and say the police did it during some kind of raid it might appear we haven’t been informed, or even worse, that we’re way ahead of the police.”
“I’m not so sure the public actually remembers all that much,” said the PM, shifting his weight so he was leaning towards the political secretary, almost threatening him as he spoke. “What we need here is to use this situation to our best advantage. The police will always look like incompetent nincompoops in the media.”
Niklas Shoreman looked up from the hidden world of the debate which had been raging in his mind, finally ready to provide the advice which would carry the day. Shoreman was used to this: being able to sit in the background as others made their own weaknesses apparent, then using a single sentence to push his agenda to the foreground.
“We’ll have to announce Hoffberg’s threat, that much is clear. Otherwise it will appear we’ve misled those entrusted with safeguarding those living in Stockholm. Everyone seems to agree on that. What we have to find is a way to make his death an advantage to us, and at the same time make us look like superheroes.”
“Superheroes?” asked the PM and his political secretary at the same time.
“Yes, exactly,” said Shoreman. “We have to appear as superheroes.”
“Of course,” said the Prime Minister, “Superheroes! It’s so simple. The bigger the disaster we save the nation from, the better we are.”
“Yes, Prime Minister,” said Shoreman. “I agree with you entirely. So maybe we can concentrate on finding out if Hoffberg’s threat was real, and if it was, disarm it.”
“Do you think he’d be such a bastard as to actually have a device capable of carrying out his threat?” asked the PM. The furrows on his brow indicated he was considering this worrisome possibility for the first time.
