by Jon Stenhugg
“So you weren’t the best of friends?” Sara was glad Lemko was talking again.
“He was the only one who knew what I looked like then. An occupational hazard I should have rectified.”
“You mean killed.”
“Yes, that’s what I said.”
“Have you ever thought about what he was thinking? I mean, there must have been times when he wanted to do the same to you, but he didn’t. The law didn’t let him.”
“Yes, of course. We could almost always count on Hurtree following the law instead of just using the opportunity to take a shot at us. It made life a lot easier. All we had to do was to keep hidden to avoid capture. It’s entirely different to keep hidden to avoid being shot.”
“Maybe we should ask our politicians to do something about that,” said Sara, more to herself than to him. “It’d be a lot easier for us if we had an even playing field.”
“I never killed a policeman. Ever.”
She recoiled at the intensity of his blue-eyed stare. She could hear he wasn’t lying. “Is that supposed to matter? What about all the other people you’ve killed? Don’t they count?”
“That was work. I never killed ordinary people. Just people who were a threat, like myself.”
“While we’re talking about killing, when you killed Hoffberg you used a gun. What happened to it?”
“Yes, I don’t like guns very much. Almost never use them. Magdalena wrote that the victim kept a gun in the garage if I needed it. It was in a shoebox on the workbench, a 38 special revolver. I left it there after I killed Hoffberg.”
“A shoebox?” Sara asked. “What colour was it?”
“Brown, I think, just a shoebox.”
“And you left the gun there before you left?”
“Yes, it’s always a dead giveaway to have a murder weapon on you if you’re searched later on.” Lemko was smiling again, a cruel, professional grimace.
“You sound like you know a lot about killing. And how did you manage to get Hoffberg to let you into the house? We found no signs of a struggle.”
Lemko’s voice became mechanical, a professional describing the tools of the trade. He described how, dressed as a female priest, he’d told Hoffberg that he was new to the parish, and about his commitment to world peace. Hoffberg had not only let him into the house, but had made the coffee that Lemko had used to drug him before carrying him into the garage for the interrogation.
“Now just get me to jail, little girl,” said Lemko, as he finished his description, then he became quiet again.
“Sorry, Lemko. They’re taking you to Kumla Prison today. What they do with you after that isn’t my problem.”
Sara felt the satisfaction of seeing almost all the pieces of the puzzle suddenly coming together. She watched Lemko’s face for telltale signs of lying, but if there was anything there she couldn’t see it.
She was sure now that the torpedo lay behind the death of Leo Hoffberg, and that both he and Martin Spimler were involved in placing it in the waters in the middle of Stockholm. She’d even uncovered the existence of a Cold War spy who’d worked in Parliament, a woman who had been able to help Lemko get details on Hoffberg so he could operate undisturbed. There was only one tiny fragment that needed to be added to make the picture complete: the identity of Magdalena.
Sara replayed in her mind the scene of the afternoon in the Hoffberg kitchen and watched as the postcard was bagged by the Forensics assistant on the day after the murder, and she heard Kristina Hoffberg’s voice as she handed over the piece of paper with the elusive cleaning woman named Magdalena’s telephone number written on it, the number that led to no one.
Sara sharpened her focus on Kristina Hoffberg, now sure that she could be Magdalena. What she needed to do was to find a way to draw Magdalena, whoever she was, out into the open, and she had already begun to plan the sting.
She wondered if Hurtree would be pleased by her plan, if he’d approve, and then she wondered how she’d be able to pull it off alone.
*
The staff in the Mission Control room in Chantilly was now on full alert, creating a slightly higher hum of activity. Instead of only one monitor watching the events outside of Stockholm there were now three, each with a different view, and the three Airmen behind the monitors talked to each other, tersely conveying a continuous update. A full bird colonel was behind the three Airmen, and he mediated the sum of events, directing them to provide more information when needed.
“What’s happening?” asked the colonel. “Someone said ‘explosion imminent’, and I don’t see any damn explosion.”
“Sorry, Colonel,” said the Airman at the centre monitor. “It was presumptive. It must have been a dud.”
“Where the fuck is that Rocketfish?” asked the colonel.
“There,” said an Airman, pointing at monitor one. “It’s on the C-130. They’re leapfrogging over the ridges near the border. They asked for help from the F-16s, but they…wait a minute. The Eagles just went to ten thousand feet and they’re locking missiles onto the Coaler. Look. The Coaler just turned back.”
“And no explosion?” asked the colonel again.
“No, sir,” said all three Airmen simultaneously.
“Thank God for that,” said the colonel. “Where the hell is that C-130?”
“It just crossed into Norway. Looks like the Coaler is headed for Russia,” said the first Airman. “It should be landing in Kaliningrad in, uh, about ninety minutes.”
“Let’s keep on top of this until the C-130 lands,” said the colonel. “Keep your eyes open for an explosion. It could still happen. And update everyone upstream.”
Chapter 25
The single light coming from the Swedish Prime Minister’s home was swallowed up by the murky Arctic night. Inside, the PM and his secretary sat in silence when a security guard informed them that Swedish radar had spotted the Coaler. It had caught up with the C-130.
It merely confirmed what he already knew after the conversation with the Russian PM, but it was always a disappointment for Sweden’s most powerful politician to discover there were people and events he couldn’t control. He began to look for a way to explain to the nation why great parts of the country had been made unlivable, and why people had not been evacuated to safety. There seemed to be no good explanation, and he began to sweat under the strain.
When a fax reported that the Coaler had turned at the Norwegian border before attacking the C-130, both the PM and the political secretary fell to their knees in prayer. A grave silence fell upon the room as they waited for news of the nuclear explosion. They waited several minutes. Finally the PM got up off his knees, looking around to see if anyone else had seen them.
“It must have exploded,” said the PM. “That’s why they can’t give us a report. They’re all dead, the whole town.”
“I’m not so sure,” said the political secretary. “We’re getting our information from two sources, and one of them is very far away from Mora, but with direct observation capabilities. If it had exploded I’m sure we’d have been informed by now.”
“Then why didn’t it explode?”
“We were praying for a miracle.”
“Well, it appears we got one. Let’s get busy drafting some press releases for three scenarios, each one being able to explain events depending upon how much information has been leaked to the press.”
*
Sara parked her car in the underground parking lot at the National Police Offices in Stockholm. She went straight to the reception area where Hurtree sat waiting. He was leafing through a police union magazine as the security gate hissed behind her.
“Have you already learned Swedish?” asked Sara. “Maybe you can apply for a job.”
“I don’t work anymore,” said Hurtree. “I just help out my friends. And it’s getting me into trouble, so I might need your help.”
“OK, I have to go to the Central Train Station. They have a good restaurant there and I have to buy a postcard. Y
ou can explain your problem on the way.”
Hurtree told Sara he’d been interviewed by Ekman after Lemko had been kidnapped. Ekman wanted to know what he knew about it.
“Ekman told me I’d worn out my welcome, that I’d pushed my nose into matters that didn’t concern me, and he took my passport.”
Sara shook her head as she paid for the postcard of City Hall matching the one she’d seen in Kristina Hoffberg’s kitchen.
“He hasn’t given it back yet and I’m a little worried about that,” continued Hurtree over the sound of loudspeakers announcing train departures and arrivals. “They don’t want me here, that’s obvious, but I can’t leave without my passport. Do you have any idea what’s going on?”
“They’re just a little pissed off that you were involved in solving this case, that’s all.” Sara asked for an English menu at the restaurant. “Was there anything else they hassled you with?”
“No, just a bunch of questions about how I knew where Schneller lived and how I knew he could be a cross-dresser in the field. I told Ekman he could get all that information from my old files and gave him Peters’ address. Funny, he seemed to know about Peters already.”
“So if you can’t leave yet, why not take some time out for a Stockholm holiday? It’ll be Christmas soon and it’s a pretty place in winter. I’ll show you around tomorrow afternoon if you want.”
“Yeah, I’d like that,” he said, and they ordered their lunches, which arrived quickly.
“Have you ever heard of someone called Magdalena?” Hurtree asked between bites. “Ekman asked me if I knew anything about her and it seemed important to him.”
“Well?” Sara diverted her eyes and looked at her plate as she asked, “Did you?”
“No. Only the one in the Bible. Never knew anyone else by that name.”
He watched as Sara took out the paper Schneller had signed the day before, and he stopped eating as she continued to make a careful forgery of his handwriting.
“There,” said Sara, “that should do it. On Tuesday I should be able to finally figure out what this case is all about.”
Hurtree fumbled around for his wallet, but Sara waved him off and paid for their lunches. They set a time for their meeting the following day, and she saw him disappear into the crowd at the Central Station as he went back to his hotel.
She popped the postcard into the yellow collection box on her way back to the office. She took the long way back to her office, crossing over King’s Bridge to go by Cantsten’s office.
*
Cantsten looked up from her reading, and Sara thought she saw something vaguely friendly behind her glasses.
“You’ve got people talking about you,” said Cantsten.
“Yeah, some people talk, others do. I’d like your help in putting Lemko on trial for Hoffberg’s murder. We’ve got a confession, some pretty good technical evidence and something we can interpret as an escape attempt. Whadda you say? Will you help me?”
“And Ekman?” asked Cantsten. “He’s made it clear they’re the ones who are going to investigate Lemko. You were supposed to let go of it.”
“Yeah, well, that would have meant letting him out of the country. I don’t let murderers go.”
“Did you know they call you the Terrier?”
“Ever since I bit my judo instructor at the police academy. Things got kind of intense during training,” said Sara. “Why do they call you Icer?”
Cantsten hesitated for a stretched second and then said softly, “Icer. I drink iced coffee when it’s hot. I dated an American for a while. The iced coffee habit stuck. He didn’t. So why the rush to get into trouble? Is Lemko worth it?”
“He’s a murderer. My job is to put people like him behind bars. Besides, I promised him a trial.”
“Was he worried about that? Getting a trial?”
“Yeah, he was. He was concerned about getting one.”
“OK, I’ll have him arraigned on Monday. Make sure you get his file over to me early in the morning so I can sound intelligent when I talk to the judge. Where is he now?”
“He’s in a holding cell in Kumla. I think he should be isolated before the trial.”
“I’ll arrange it.” Cantsten picked up the phone. “Anything else?”
“Yeah, I think I’ll be able to arrest his accomplice on Tuesday. Wanna be there?”
Cantsten seemed to become a whole new person. “Where and when?”
“City Hall, Tuesday lunchtime,” Sara said.
“Meet you there,” said Cantsten.
*
Sunday started as another attempt at trying to be normal in an abnormal world. Sara still couldn’t understand how her grandmother could just die and not be there to help as she’d always done before. There were papers to sign that had piled up on the hallway floor just under the mail slot in the door, bills to be paid at the end of the month and several pounds of advertisements for everything from eggs to chickens, TVs to toasters, and a notice that two flats in the house where she lived were being put up for sale in the current month.
Sara sat on the floor, legs crossed, listening to her heartbeat as she tried to slow it down so she could enter her own special place. When the weekend was over it’d be a difficult Monday, another day of trying to be the best in the class and all the time knowing whatever she did, it wouldn’t be enough.
Sara gave up her meditation when she noticed her concentration was broken by a pain in her hip that spread down her right leg. Sciatica again, her old friend from too little exercise and missing out on the physical therapy she’d been going to after an accident in judo class at the academy. She made a note to ask her yoga teacher if there was a position to alleviate the problem.
The wind howled outside and the temperature had dropped to well below minus five. Birds pecked at her windows, hoping she’d throw out a few crumbs before they froze to feathers on a stick. It was a tough time to be alive in Sweden, the beginning of another winter; a reminder that she’d promised herself a life in a warmer climate as a teenager.
As she waited for the water to boil for a cup of green tea, Hurtree’s call interrupted the quiet of the morning. He wanted to meet in a warm place, so she suggested the Central Train Station, where it was warm and where they could get to just about anywhere in a hurry.
*
Hurtree whistled from above as she walked from the local train platform into the Central Train Station, and he peered down through the hole in the ceiling above her.
He was standing at the railing of the ‘spittoon’, a hole in the ground floor that gave visual access to traffic on the first underground level below.
“Stay where you are, I’ll be right up.” She vaulted up the stairs.
As she approached Hurtree she could see he was on the phone, and seemed to be troubled.
“I guess you’ve heard by now Schneller is back in custody,” Hurtree blurted into his phone.
Captain Peters’ voice was cold and angry. “Yeah, I heard. I’ve been trying to call and chew you out. From what I heard, your girl scout cop almost lost him. If it hadn’t been for the Swedish NSS he’d be back in Germany by now.”
“Don’t believe everything you hear, Charlie,” said Hurtree, waving to Sara as she came closer. “I was there when Schneller got caught the first time. I saw it. If it hadn’t been for her, he’d have been way beyond Germany. They screwed up when they surrounded the house. Never figured he’d have an escape route to take him beyond their perimeter. Anyway, she was the one who got him. I helped a little, but I don’t count. And she was the one that caught him again when he’d been kidnapped. I hope that wasn’t our bunch at work.”
“No,” replied Captain Peters, “at least not that I know of. We don’t get to do that kind of stuff, you know that. Anyway, I’m glad to hear he’s back in the slammer again. Can you go home now? You’ve done what you were supposed to do, and you’re making waves.”
“I’m only a tourist, Charlie. I’ll be home soon. Count on it.”
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“Yeah, right. As usual.”
Hurtree turned off his phone. He followed Sara into an Irish sports bar at one end of the train station. He ordered a Guinness and she went for green tea.
“So when do you think I’ll get my passport back?” he asked as he tapped his Guinness with his fingernails, convinced he could speed up the bubbles’ rise to the thick, brown foam at the top.
“I can talk to Ekman tomorrow,” Sara said. “Or what’s more likely, he’ll be talking to me. I’m in trouble too, you know.”
“How can you be in trouble when you managed to catch that guy before he got out of the country? Twice.”
“Yeah, I know, but I didn’t follow the book and some of the bosses at work think the book is more important than the result. I’m sure you had bosses like that when you were working.”
“No, actually not. At least I never noticed it. I just did the job. Sometimes it was easy, sometimes not, but I never felt like I had someone who jerked me around, told me not to catch a bad guy, no, that never happened. The book was always there, and if you didn’t follow it you were out, it was that simple. But if I looked hard I could always find little grey areas where I could make my own decisions. That’s what I did, anyway.”
“It doesn’t happen that way over here. We have a saying: ‘What isn’t forbidden is compulsory.’ We don’t have much room to wiggle.”
“Yeah, I didn’t get much wiggle room talking to Ekman,” he said. “It was like the first time I met you guys a few years ago. All I could do was to listen to his questions to figure out what he wouldn’t tell me. If I do that today I’d say you guys are trying to finally follow up this Schneller guy and what he was doing up here all those years. Right?”
“I can’t tell you,” Sara said, with a little chuckle. “Ask Ekman. All I’m trying to do is solve a murder case, and I’ve almost got it in the bag.”
“Almost?”
“Yeah, there’s one final loose end. I’ve got an accomplice to catch. A woman who gave Lemko what he needed to know to kill Hoffberg. I hope to take her into custody on Tuesday.” And she told Hurtree what Lemko had said on the way up to Stockholm on Friday.
