The Magdalena File

by Jon Stenhugg

  As she closed her eyes she saw in her mind how Spimler would have tried to roll over to protect his breathing device, working hard to kick his way through the ever-decreasing gap between the lake bottom and the torpedo, then she saw how the torpedo had fallen onto him, pinning him with his face looking up, waving at the man on the surface for help, and watching helplessly as one of the two boats suddenly disappeared, the high-pitched whine of its engine receeding. Spimler would have hoped that help would come soon; he had only a few minutes before the soda lime filter on his breathing device would be exhausted, and he would have tried to think of his wife, his work with frogs, and realised that the rest of his life would now be very short indeed. If it went down like that then it had to be Hoffberg up there, Sara thought, and it must have meant he planned on using the torpedo soon. It’s been quite a while since Spimler died, so a clock-timer to start the torpedo must be running down if it was started. There might be some kind of switch, or a way to set it off from a remote location.

  *

  “There’s a clock running, counting down. It’s got a switch on it,” said the diver as he spluttered his assessment to the Swedish mission coordinator in the Combat Boat, “and there’s a cable running off in the direction of the island where we’ve got our command post set up. I’ll follow it. Get a team to wait for me at the shore.”

  “Roger that,” said the coordinator, a young man who had spent most of his life playing combat computer games. This time it was for real.

  “And tell them to keep all radio and telephone traffic to a minimum,” said the diver. “We don’t know what’s on the other end of that cable. And tell them,” he spluttered again as the choppy waters of Lake Mälaren choked him, “tell them there isn’t much time left on the clock.”

  *

  Sara left her trance and became aware of the others running around outside her office, and she turned on the light. It reminded her of some of the fire drills that had been held to honour the government’s commitment to terrorist threats and general preparedness. This time it was different. There was already a press release lying on Sara’s desk.

  Chapter 20

  FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

  A military exercise has been scheduled to take place within the innermost part of the city of Stockholm today and tomorrow, beginning 1500 hours October 15th and ending 2400 hours October 16th. The exercise will involve units of the Coastal Defence, including a Combat Boat 90 and a military helicopter which will be present in the area at various times during the manoeuvres. The exercise is being carried out to train the defence of strategic government buildings, including the Parliament Building. A command post will be set up on the island of Långholmen and the public is kindly requested to refrain from entering the area east of the bridge crossing the island. No pleasure craft will be allowed in the waters of The Bay of Knights between the Old City and West Bridge during this exercise. Any questions will be handled by the Press Secretary of the Navy at the number below.

  *

  Manuals were coming out of desks, phones were put into action and the smell of adrenaline began to permeate the air. Each person had a task; each function would make the clock tick through to a successful completion. In theory.

  Unfortunately most of the errors discovered during five years of drills had never been dealt with. There were still gaping holes in every procedure. Lists included those to be informed by people who had now retired, telephone numbers which had been changed and sections reorganised. It began to look like controlled chaos, but chaos all the same.

  Sara was supposed to first inform her immediate superior that a state of emergency existed, and she checked off that box as she watched Sven call his superior, the head of the National Police Board. Her next step was to secure the premises. This had always been easy to do at the NBI: the entire building was divided into compartments sealed off from one another by coded entry points, and she checked that box too, just like everyone else. She had a list of telephone numbers to call, each with a specific function. Most of her numbers went to some first responder organisations: the hospitals, fire department and the ambulance service. On her first try she was asked to make a few choices, pushing buttons as she did so, and she was put into a telephone queue by a tinny, telephone-robot voice who informed her at regular intervals that her call was being monitored and told her that her number in the queue was gradually decreasing.

  Sara hung up when she heard she was number eighty-six in the queue. Another unchecked box.

  The fire department was easier, and Sara read them the contents of the press release she’d just faxed.

  First there was silence on the other end. Then the obvious question: “Isn’t it a little late to be informing us of this now?” asked the officer. “We’ll do what we have to do, of course, but it would have been nice to know this yesterday.”

  “I can’t agree more. But I haven’t got much time to debate it right now. Thanks for your attention. Goodbye.”

  *

  Sven was trying to reach the office of the Prime Minister, and was having the same frustrating experience as Sara.

  “Shit,” he called out, and smashed the receiver onto the cradle. The PM couldn’t be reached because he’d already been removed by the NSS team assigned to safeguard his life. He was in a convoy of black vans, travelling at breakneck speed towards his mansion about two hours south of Stockholm.

  *

  The PM and his political secretary were facing each other in the bullet- and bomb-proof SUV, both of them wearing camouflaged flak jackets and helmets. Sweat ran off their faces.

  “I think we should get some outside help on this,” said the PM. “I’m not sure our boys have the background to disarm a nuclear warhead.”

  “We should have evacuated the city a long time ago,” said the political secretary, aware that sooner or later someone would be empowered to do a follow-up of the events of the past week. “We’ll be crucified if this isn’t contained.”

  “Wrong. We’ve pulled off crises far worse than this one. Remember Chernobyl? Nearly one third of the country was affected by radioactive fallout and several places declared unfit for human life by that American team of experts, and did we panic? No way. We told everyone there was nothing to worry about and it worked. All you have to do is to remain in office long enough. It takes guts to have power today, remember that.”

  “Yes, Prime Minister,” said the political secretary, careful to include the title so important to the man before him, a man already resolving parts of the crisis.

  “Where should we look for help? The Russians? It’s their weapon, so they would be the best ones to understand it. The Americans? They have a lot more money, and want it even more than the Russians. Maybe we could have an auction.” The PM’s voice regained its usual timbre and forcefulness.

  The helmet the political secretary was wearing seemed to be trying to remove his large, horn-rimmed glasses, and he had to adjust them every few minutes. “Do we have to wear these things? We have to be well beyond the perimeter of an explosion by now.”

  “Use your own discretion,” said the PM through a smile. “I’m keeping mine on until I’m sure your head won’t get blown off and injure me.”

  Before they arrived at the PM’s mansion a call was made to the Russian ambassador, who expressed mild surprise that he’d just been invited to the personal home of the Prime Minister. The Russian Embassy was in the centre of the city, only a few hundred yards away from the island where the torpedo lay on the bottom of the lake, and the PM was careful not to divulge the reason for the personal invitation to visit his home. He didn’t want to use this ace until the very last card had to be played.

  *

  Ekman had two cards to play. He contacted Captain Peters in Munich first.

  “Captain Peters? We have a situation here. We’ve found the Shkval we spoke of when you visited me. Unfortunately it’s in Stockholm, submerged in the lake, aimed at our Parliament Building.”

  “Oh, Jesus,”
said Peters. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Our Naval team has discovered the torpedo has been armed and is set to go off in a little more than a day. It’s connected to a cell phone via a long cable. We think the idea was to have a backup plan, to call the number and send it on its course even before the timer came to an end, if necessary.”

  “Then I guess you guys have it covered. Well, it’s good to know it’s surfaced, so to speak. I’m sure my superiors would like to help you disarm it, if you need help, that is.”

  “I’m not sure that’s appropriate right now. I was calling you regarding the agent you spoke of, Schneller. We caught him too.”

  “Now that is good news. Is he the one who planted the torpedo?”

  “He’s not saying much to us. Admitted a murder, but won’t give us any reason why, except to say he liked doing it. And then there’s Hurtree. It seems your pensioner was involved in his capture. First I’d like to thank you for his assistance, and then ask you to get him out of here as soon as possible. He knows a little too much, if you know what I mean.”

  “Oh sure, I’ll talk to him as soon as I can. Do you know where he is right now?”

  “No. He was with our investigator, Sara Markham, at the time of Schneller’s capture. That’s all I know. I pulled her off the case days ago, but she can’t seem to follow orders. We almost lost Schneller because she and Hurtree got in the way. Anyway, when I got Schneller in the interrogation room I asked him if he knew of Hurtree, and even though he said he didn’t it was obvious he was lying. There seems to have been some bad blood between them when they were both active.”

  “Bad blood isn’t quite strong enough,” said Peters. “They would have killed each other if they’d been given the chance, so I’m not surprised Schneller reacted when you mentioned Hurtree’s name.”

  “He also said something about an information specialist up here, someone called Magdalena. Did you find out anything about her in your files?”

  “I’m the wrong person to ask about those times. You should talk to Hurtree, he was the one who was working with the German BND on all those people.”

  “OK. I guess I might need him a little while longer. Try to have him contact me if you can get hold of him. And please, don’t give him any information about our situation. By the way, I’ll make sure your country’s expertise in disarming the Shkval will be considered by the appropriate people. Thanks.”

  Ekman’s next call was to Michael Rice, who had already been informed by the switchboard. “Hello, Mr Ekman.”

  “Hello, Station Chief Rice. We don’t have time for pleasantries. I may need your help.”

  “No problem.” Michael Rice closed the door to his office, walked to a filing cabinet and pulled his file on the NSS. He wedged the phone between his ear and shoulder, as he opened the file to a page which had Lars Ekman’s photo on the upper right-hand corner. “How can I help?”

  “Do you remember our conversation last year, when the MS Sally went down?”

  “Yes.” Rice’s answer seemed to take several seconds to complete. He flipped to the next page in the file, headed by a photograph of the MS Sally taken before she sank.

  “It seems, uh, the thing which everyone was looking for last year has been located.”

  Station Chief Rice exhaled, the burst of air carrying through to Ekman. “I suppose you can’t tell me where it is?”

  “No,” said Ekman, “of course not. However, we’ve faxed most of the embassies a press release regarding a military exercise to take place today and tomorrow. You might want to look at that.”

  Station Chief Rice pushed a button on his intercom and shouted orders to the front desk as he opened the file containing the contingency plans.

  Ekman listened to the commotion on the other side, and Rice’s reaction to the fax about the military exercise in the centre of the city.

  “When do you begin the evacuation?” asked Rice.

  “We have no indication there will be one,” said Ekman.

  “What? Well I’m starting one for our citizens in Stockholm immediately,” informed Rice.

  “I think you should perhaps wait for that,” said Ekman, “If you were to do that then every American citizen in the City would make a bee-liine for Arlanda Airport, and on their way they would be sending mass texts to all their friends. Within fifteen minutes we’d have international chaos, and your ability to help would diminish considerably.”

  “I’m listening,” said Rice.

  Ekman continued, “I think you might be interested in a document that we’ve obtained as part of an investigation.” He grinned as he imagined the effect his next words would have on Rice. “Would you be interested in a copy of a manual, by any chance?”

  The whoop could be heard on the entire third floor of the embassy. “You’re damned right I would be. How do we do this?”

  “I have an errand to run near City Hall. Perhaps we could meet there in an hour. The men’s room of the restaurant? Stadshuskällaren.”

  “I’ll be there,” said Station Chief Rice. “And Lars, thanks again. Not just from me – the entire United States is thanking you.”

  “That remains to be seen,” said Ekman.

  “How much time do we have?” asked Rice.

  “About twenty-five hours,” said Ekman, “And no evacuation.”

  *

  About an hour after Ekman had put down the telephone, the USA-27, also known as Improved Crystal, a KH-12 high-resolution, surveillance satellite, was moved into position about 190 miles above Stockholm. Within minutes it was broadcasting real-time images of the helicopter, the police patrol boats, the Navy Combat Boats and their command post on the eastern tip of the island of Långholmen. An infrared sensor was also collecting data on the water to a depth of sixty feet, including a long, cylindrical object pointed due east towards the centre of the city. The sensor even picked up the slight difference in temperature caused by the decaying plutonium in the nose of the warhead. The Rocketfish was ready to run, and waiting to be switched on.

  *

  The Russian ambassador was on his way to Sweden’s Prime Minister in the wooded farmlands just west of the little town of Katrineholm. He knew something important was happening as soon one of his informants at a major newspaper had called in the press release regarding the military exercise in the middle of the city. The same trick had been used when Yasser Arafat had visited Stockholm, demanding security well beyond what the city police could have offered.

  The Ambassador’s limousine pulled into the gravelled driveway in front of the house. The house would cost a fortune to run, even after the PM had left office, but he’d already prepared an EU agricultural grant to provide him a sizeable income for his ‘farm’.

  The Ambassador became nervous when he noticed that the armed guards bristling with HK automatic weapons were also wearing combat helmets. When the PM informed him of the weapon lying a few hundred metres from his family’s living quarters at the embassy, he had to excuse himself and went to the toilet. His easy assignment in the decadent West had suddenly become a deadly trap. He washed the taste of vomit from his mouth and tried to call his family, but his cell phone was refused by the base station mounted on a tree within sight of the PM’s house.

  “We’ve decided not to evacuate the city,” said the PM when he’d returned, “and your embassy is in no danger either, as long as we can rely on your assistance in removing this weapon.”

  “Of course,” said the Ambassador, trying his best to remain calm. “Of course we’ll assist you in any way we can. I’ll make contact with my military attaché, and he’ll have the appropriate people sent here as soon as the team can be assembled. We’ll need use of the airport at Bromma. I’ll also have to be able to use my cell phone, and there seems to be a problem with it out here.”

  “We’ll provide you with a telephone you can use if you give us the numbers to call. I’m afraid we’ll have to ask for your cooperation in keeping this quiet, so no calls to y
our embassy or your family will be allowed at this time. I’m sure you understand.”

  The PM, his political secretary, and the Russian ambassador worked for several hours, devising the extension of the military exercise taking place in Stockholm. A military team who worked as instructors with the VA-111 were already being prepped and would arrive from the Naval base at Kaliningrad before lunch the next day. A Swedish military limousine would be waiting for them at Bromma Airport to take them and their equipment to the command post on the island near where the Rocketfish was submerged.

  After disarming the weapon, they would attach slings to the torpedo, and a Swedish Navy helicopter would fly out from the base at Muskö, winch up the torpedo and ferry it back to Bromma Airport, where it would then be loaded onto the military transport aircraft waiting for them.

  It was nearly midnight when they were finished, and the PM offered the Ambassador a late supper. As they finished their cognac and coffee the Ambassador put one final chip on the table.

  “I’ve heard you managed to apprehend a murderer, an ex-Stasi agent whom we know as Schneller. Is that not correct?”

  “You seem to be better informed than I am,” said the PM, “but that very well could have happened. I do know we have apprehended a suspect in a very high-profile murder case.”

  “It’s better that you haven’t been informed, actually. I would like to add a condition for our help in disarming the torpedo in the middle of your city,” said the Ambassador. He took a long sip of cognac, draining the glass, and placed it demonstratively in front of the PM. As his glass was being refilled, he continued, “I would very much appreciate the opportunity to have this man called Schneller released into our custody. It seems he can provide us with information about the theft of some of our military material in Estonia, and you seem to have been very good at catching him.”