The Magdalena File

by Jon Stenhugg

  “I’m not sure we can do that,” said the PM, and a large knot appeared on his forehead. “We have some very specific rules about how much power I can wield at the level of individual government agencies. It would be very difficult for me to just call someone and have him released into your custody.”

  The Ambassador smiled, recognising the truth in what the PM was saying, while at the same time knowing that when the PM wished for something to be done he could find a way to do it with no problem whatsoever. He raised the ante again.

  “Well, I’m sure your political secretary might find a way to contact me with details of a prisoner transport, providing me with a place where the vehicle will stop for coffee and doughnuts. We’ll take care of the rest, providing, of course, our team manages to disarm the torpedo. Or let’s put it another way: after a certain coffee break has been successful, our team will be much more motivated to disarm the torpedo. Have I made myself clear, Prime Minister?”

  “Oh, definitely,” said the PM, and produced a thick suspension file labelled The Gazprom Project from the briefcase at his feet, placing it on his knees. “And since I do understand you, then perhaps we can continue by discussing the gas pipeline from your country, across the Baltic and into Germany. You do understand it requires our Parliament to take a favourable view of the project, and that may not be as easy here as it would be in your country. However, if we could, let’s say, imagine a case where the pipeline is allowed to come ashore in Stockholm also, and that we could get your help in determining the price of the first ten years of gas delivery from your country, then I think the discussions in our Parliament might be a bit easier to predict. Actually, with this price freeze in place I’m sure we can get almost everyone on board, especially since you’ve appointed Carl Picqtore, the most important politician from the Opposition, to the board of directors of Gazprom. I’m sure you’ll have no difficulty in agreeing to a price of $200 per thousand cubic metres, especially when we agree not to re-export to our neighbours. Now, if you’ll just sign this Agreement in Principle, we can use it to create the document for your own Prime Minister and myself to sign at our meeting next month.”

  Both men laughed jovially as the PM produced a pen for the signing. At the same time he called for his political secretary to discuss the details of how Schneller would be transferred to another, much safer, prison.

  *

  After leaving the PM’s house in the forest, the Ambassador finally found a radio base station which accepted his telephone. He hit a number on his speed-dial list.

  “Shoreman,” answered the man on the other end.

  “Niklas, the torpedo has just been found and will soon be disarmed. I have negotiated a deal whereby our friend Schneller will be moved to another location, for our own good. I want you to make sure a team can intercept him and get him back to us. We will be able to retrieve the torpedo, they’ve agreed to that, and those damned Americans can sit there and watch on their satellites as much as they wish. Did you get that, Niklas?”

  “Yes, Ambassador.”

  “Then just do it. We’ll meet later when all this has become much calmer.”

  “Yes, Ambassador, goodbye.”

  Chapter 21

  Sara spent a few minutes during breakfast speaking to Miss Gomez regarding the arrangements for her grandmother’s funeral. When she got to work, the lake in front of City Hall was still cordoned off by two Combat 90 military patrol boats. The helicopter had been pulled back during the night, but crowds of spectators were still clumped together on the shoreline, in spite of the freezing weather.

  She went into Sven’s office to get some help in making up a report to account for her presence at Lemko’s arrest, and also to explain how she had been able to find the torpedo lying submerged within sight of the Parliament Building.

  “Good morning,” said Sven. “I hope you haven’t found any more bodies, weapons or spies. I’m having a great deal of trouble explaining why you always seem to be in the right place at the right time.”

  “It’s the eighty-twenty rule. Eighty per cent of the good luck goes to twenty per cent of the police. I was born on the right side of the equation.”

  Sven looked away to view the tops of the bare branches on the trees in the park across the street. He had a three-window module, a rare symbol of power in the police force, and it was sought after by a number of other bosses on the same floor after each post-election reorganisation.

  “It’s going to be a warm winter,” he said. “The Laplander was reading his fish-guts the other day on the TV and he said there would hardly be any ice on the lake at all this winter.”

  “I never listen to all that fish-gut crap. But I’m all for it if he’s right. I never was much for winter sports anyway. Always preferred to go bowling instead.”

  “Well, it’ll help if we don’t have to put up with ice on the lake tonight, in spite of the freeze this morning. You’ll hear this later on when I inform the team. The torpedo will be disarmed and a Huey helicopter from Muskö is going to extract it and transport it to Bromma Airport. Did you get your new case?”

  “The beating of the drunk in the underground station? Yeah, seems very easy. Lots of witnesses, the boys’ confession, and no other suspects. The paperwork is probably the hardest part.”

  “You should be thankful. Ekman thought you were out of line on the Hoffberg case, but I pointed out to him it would never have been solved without you.”

  “Thanks, boss.”

  “And I also told him you weren’t going to get involved in it anymore, and the entire team was being disengaged from the case. He seemed much happier to hear that.”

  “Tell me, should I have let it go? Would it have been better if the torpedo was still unknown to us? Suppose someone had called that telephone number by mistake and set it off – is that what Ekman would have preferred?”

  “Ekman only deals with his world,” said Sven. “He can’t answer questions like that because in his world there are no ‘ifs’, just facts. He leaves the conditionals to the politicians he works with, and he lets them make up and answer the questions as they like.”

  “So what was your answer to me? Should I have let it go?”

  “You shouldn’t have asked the question. That’s the right answer. Just do your job, fill in the blanks in the forms in front of you and don’t try to be more than what we can be. It’s just a job, Sara, we’re no more than civil servants doing the bidding of the master of the minute. Don’t make us out to be more important than we can ever be. I’ll need your report on Lemko’s capture, including anything he said to you, on my desk by the end of your shift today.”

  Sara got up to leave, and Sven added one final dart, a bullseye. “And you might as well hear it from me. Lemko, Schneller or whatever his name is will be moved this afternoon to a more secure prison until his trial.”

  “What? What could be more secure than where he is today?”

  “Someone thinks he needs more protection than he’s getting where he is,” said Sven, waving a finger towards the ceiling, indicating it came from higher up; very much higher up.

  Sara’s eyes narrowed, and she raised her hands in submission as she sat down again.

  “I can’t believe it,” she said. “I catch this guy, and now the power freaks get worried about him? Where are they putting him up? The Prime Minister’s own villa?”

  “Don’t take this personally, Sara.”

  “How do you do it, not get involved?”

  “I always get involved. So does Ekman. We just don’t let our humanity get in the way of the job.”

  “Sounds a little like becoming a machine.”

  “On the contrary. The reverse also applies, Sara. The job shouldn’t get in the way of our humanity.”

  “So what makes you human, boss?”

  Sven sat quietly before he replied, then he smiled. “I like soccer. Nothing gets in the way of soccer. Just like Ekman, ask him sometime.”

  *

  Sara walked
over to Cantsten’s office to lose some of the steam building up inside of her. It was gusty, freezing, but her gloves seemed to radiate heat rays from her hands.

  When she got there Cantsten had already left for a session in court, so Sara left her a message about the status of the Hoffberg case and added a note that Cantsten could call her if she wanted details about her new case, the beating of the drunk in an underground station. She was on her way out to the street when a bleeping from her cell phone let her know that Hurtree was active again.

  “Hello, John. How was Estonia?”

  “Depressing. And bleak, and windy, and cold, and depressing. And bleak.”

  “Sounds exciting. I’m almost sad I couldn’t be there.”

  “You should have seen it. The train out to Paldiski was like a trip to hell. I was surprised I was allowed to return.”

  “Then maybe the Devil has something in mind for you. Ever think of that?”

  “I don’t talk to the Devil all that often.”

  “You never know, John.”

  “I know I’m hungry,” he said. “You owe me a hot dog from the last time I was here and I’ve decided to let you repay the favour, whether you like it or not. Where can we meet for lunch?”

  They decided on the Central Train Station, and met there. Sara bought him a pizza instead of a hot dog, and told him a little about how she’d found the torpedo, then asked for details on his trip to Tallinn.

  “Not my favourite place. It was cheap to get there and back, but I doubt I’ll do it again, and if I do I’ll wear a lead suit. Paldiski must glow in the dark. Did you know they were manufacturing plutonium there?”

  “No,” said Sara. “Did you find out anything else?”

  “Yeah, I did. Someone there knows a lot about what you people are doing up here. He told me Schneller had been put behind bars. Word travels fast in some circles.”

  “What? You met someone in Estonia who already knew we’d arrested him? Not even the press knows that.”

  “Yeah, I was thinking the same thing. I guess every silver lining has a cloud attached to it. I’d say someone down there is in bed with someone up here,” said Hurtree, finishing his pizza.

  “Did they say anything else?”

  “Just that Paldiski and torpedoes were dangerous, but I knew that already. Oh, right, he also told me to try to get to see Schneller and tell him to do his job or he would die. Then he told me his dog didn’t like me. The feeling was mutual, believe me.”

  “Do his job,” Sara mused. “I wonder what he meant by that?”

  “He got off the train before I could ask him. And I was glad he did. Not your nicest tour guide. So what about your torpedo? You said it was close by.”

  They took a short walk from the train station out to a jetty with a view of the water in front of City Hall, where they could see the flashing blue lights on the military patrol boats in the distance. Hurtree asked her about what was going to happen to Schneller – he always called him Schneller – and he laughed when Sara told him they were going to move him to a more secure location.

  “Sounds like Swedish moose-shit to me,” Hurtree chuckled. “I’d say they’re moving him so they can trade him off. It’s either us or the Russians. Are you getting any help with disarming the torpedo?”

  “I don’t know, but they’re supposed to remove it sometime today after it’s been disarmed. The whole team is out of the loop since the NSS got involved. Would they do that? Use Lemko as a bargaining chip? I mean, he’s a killer.”

  Hurtree gave Sara one of his ‘come now, little girl’ looks, as he said, “We would. If the guy was of any value in the future, you bet. I don’t know what he could mean to the Russians, but I know there are a lot of people on our side who’d like to spend a few hours with him in a locked room. He knows a great deal about what went on up here during the Cold War.”

  “Yeah, and so what? The Cold War is over.”

  “It is? Who won? I’m not keeping score, but it seems to me the difference between the Cold War and today is that now we’re using bullets and bombs, instead of stockpiling them like we did before.”

  Sara couldn’t argue with that. It seemed like a new war-of-the-day every time she turned on the news, and they always seemed to be fought in far-off places. She always looked at the local people in the news reports and their faces seemed to tell the same story she’d seen on documentaries about the Second World War: fatigue, hopelessness and wonderment that the cameraman taking the film would be allowed to survive, even though they knew the minute after he left could be their last.

  “You’re depressing me, Hurtree. I just lost someone close to me and I don’t need to feel like the world is coming to an end before supper.”

  “Well, if those guys out there don’t do the right thing with that torpedo you might be very right about the end of the world, at least for us. How ‘bout going somewhere warm if you have time? I’m not used to your Swedish winter yet.”

  “It isn’t cold yet, John. That won’t happen for another two months.”

  “Maybe you should tell it to those crazy sailors out there.” Hurtree pointed to a catamaran making wide, nearly incontrollable turns close to City Hall. “They look like amateurs.”

  The catamaran seemed to heed Hurtree’s concern, and the boat abruptly straightened up its course to head for the flashing blue lights of the Combat 90 boats guarding the location of the Rocketfish.

  *

  Under the water below the guards, two divers using CCUBA equipment removed the cable attaching the mobile phone to the torpedo. Their next step was to stealthily attach propellers to the torpedo. Above them, one of the Combat boats started the engines. The divers looked up at the spinning props of the boat overhead, and prepared for their journey.

  As one of the Combat boats accelerated to fend off the approaching catamaran, the divers began to steer the torpedo from under the boats towards the centre of the channel. The inexpert sailor on the catamaran was told to sober up and move his boat towards the centre of the channel, which he promised to do. The skipper of the Combat Boat shook his head in disbelief as he backed to where buoys marked the location they were guarding, and dropped anchor.

  On board the catamaran, the man at the rudder sailed past both Combat boats on his port side. He waved and grinned at the sailors and continued his capricious course towards West Bridge, the link between Stockholm’s southern island to the next island, Kungsholmen. He sailed under the bridge, tacked to starboard, expertly sailed past the guest harbour for pleasure craft and made for Smedsudden and a group of three small islands overgrown with trees and brush at the end of a public park.

  Behind the shelter of the cove, he heaved to, hauled the sail and dropped anchor. He threw a sharp white strobe light into the water to guide his divers, then worked feverishly, running between the stern and the deck between the two bows. Within five minutes he heard the sound of his team members’ breathing over the clucking of the water between the two hulls of the catamaran. He heard them cinching the torpedo to the loops he’d thrown out.

  Two knocks aft, then two knocks from the port bows. He started the winches and the Rocketfish began its rise to the surface. A single knock from the aft and another from the bow told the skipper that the torpedo was above water, straddled by the catamaran, and he stopped the winches, hauled in the strobe light and took his team members on board. Now they just had to disarm it.

  *

  Earlier that same morning a wedding party in the Russian enclave of Kaliningrad had stopped their rented black Lada limousine at Königsberg Cathedral to place roses on Immanuel Kant’s grave, one of very few places with a German background left after the Soviets took over most of Prussia following the war. It was the couple’s way of registering a concealed protest against the Russian government, a symbol of solidarity with a European philosopher.

  The wedding party looked up as they heard the sound of a military jet leaving the air base close to the Baltic. Almost immediately, the USA-27 satel
lite high over Stockholm captured the image of a Russian AN72 Coaler Military Transport aircraft bearing the team from Kaliningrad’s Chkalovsk Naval base as it approached Stockholm from the southeast. In less than fifty minutes it would be sweeping in over the E4 Essinge Skyway to land at Bromma Airport.

  *

  The military observers in Chantilly, Virginia, sent a terse message to the mission leader sitting in his grey Mercedes sedan with a view over the waters of Lake Mälaren. Below him the team on the catamaran was still trying to disarm the warhead. It wasn’t as easy in real life as it had been during the dry runs using their newly acquired manual.

  The mission leader shouted into the communications unit connecting him to the catamaran, “Get moving, guys,” as he backed his car to a place where he could turn around. “How much time is left on the clock?”

  The skipper on the catamaran tapped one of the divers on the head, then motioned to his watch. “Time left?”

  “About three hours,” came the response, which was relayed to the mission leader.

  “Can you keep at it while you move?” asked the mission leader.

  The response from the catamaran’s skipper was crisp and left no doubt. “No.”

  “Then get them up on deck. You have to be at the loading dock in less than thirty minutes.”

  The skipper started the twin outboards, as his divers pulled up the anchor and they backed out into the channel. The engines whined as the propellers dug into the water.

  “We weigh a lot more now than we did this morning,” the skipper complained to the mission leader.

  “Just don’t drop it.”

  “Maybe we could fire it up and just shoot ourselves over to…” He caught himself, bit his lip and left the rest of the message unsaid.

  “Just don’t drop it,” came the reply.

  The catamaran sailed south of Lilla Essinge Island, then veered north to pass under the E4 Essinge Skyway high over their heads. There was little other traffic on the water as they continued towards the bridge between Kungsholmen and the mainland at Alvik, Traneberg Bridge. Then they saw it: a coastal freighter beginning the tight turn to cross under the bridge. The skipper on the catamaran looked at his watch, judged the remaining distance to the bridge and opened the outboards to a full scream.