The Sandman

“Have you heard of Jurek Walter?”

  “No.”

  “Not many people have, and that’s just as well,” Verner says.

  58

  A ray of sunlight is twinkling on the dirty kitchen window as Carlos Eliasson hands Saga Bauer a dossier. She opens the folder and finds herself staring directly into Jurek Walter’s pale eyes. She moves the photograph and starts to read the thirteen-year-old report. Her face turns white, and she sits down on the floor with her back against the radiator, still reading, looking at the pictures, glancing through postmortem reports and reading the details of his unique sentence.

  When she closes the file, Carlos tells her how Mikael Kohler-Frost was found wandering across the Igelsta Bridge after being missing for thirteen years.

  Verner gets out his phone and plays the recording of the young man describing his captivity and escape. Saga listens to his anguished voice, and when she hears him talk about his sister, her cheeks turn red. She looks at the photograph in the folder. The little girl is standing with her loose braid and riding hat, smiling as if she were planning something mischievous.

  When Mikael’s voice falls silent, she stands up and paces the empty kitchen, then stops in front of the window.

  “We have nothing more to go on now than they had thirteen years ago,” Verner says. “We don’t know anything. But Jurek Walter knows. He knows where Felicia is, and he knows who his accomplice is.”

  Verner explains that it’s impossible to get the truth out of Jurek Walter in a conventional interrogation.

  “Not even torture would work,” Carlos says, leaning back against the windowsill.

  “What the hell? Why don’t we do what we usually do, then?” Saga asks. “Surely all we have to do is recruit just one damn informant. One of the nurses, or a psychiatrist who can—”

  “Joona says—sorry to interrupt,” Verner cuts in. “But Joona says that Jurek may already have influence over members of the staff. That’s the way Jurek functions. It’s just too risky to take a chance, since we don’t know who he may have gotten to.”

  “So what the hell do we do?”

  “Our only option is to install a trained agent as a patient in the same institution,” he replies.

  “Why would he talk to a patient?” Saga asks skeptically.

  “Joona thinks we need to find an agent who’s so exceptional that Jurek Walter ends up curious enough to want to know more.”

  “Curious how?”

  “Curious about them as a person, and not just because they represent the possibility of getting out,” Carlos replies.

  “Did Joona mention me?” she asks in a serious voice.

  “You’re our first choice,” Verner says firmly.

  “Who’s your second choice?”

  “There isn’t one,” Carlos replies.

  “How would this be arranged, in purely practical terms?” she asks.

  “The bureaucratic machinery is already hard at work,” Verner says. “One decision leads to another, and if you accept the mission, you just have to climb on board.”

  “Tempting,” she mutters.

  “We’ll arrange for you to be sentenced to secure psychiatric care in the Court of Appeal, and transferred at once to Karsudden Hospital.”

  Verner goes over to the tap and refills his plastic cup. “We spotted something that might work to our advantage, a formulation in the original County Council permit—the one that was granted when the psychiatric unit at Löwenströmska Hospital was first set up.”

  “It states very clearly that the ward is designed to offer treatment to three patients,” Carlos adds. “But for the past thirteen years, they’ve had just one patient, Jurek Walter.”

  Verner drinks noisily, then crumples up his cup and tosses it in the sink.

  “The hospital administrators have always tried to fend off other patients,” Carlos goes on. “But they’re perfectly aware that they have to accept more if they receive a direct request.”

  “Which is precisely what’s happening now. The Prison Service Committee has called an extraordinary meeting, where the decision will be made to transfer one patient from the secure psychiatric unit at Säter to Löwenströmska, and another from Karsudden Hospital.”

  “In other words, you would be the patient from Karsudden,” Carlos says.

  “So, if I agree to this, I’d be admitted as a dangerous patient?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you going to give me a criminal record?”

  “A decision from the National Judiciary Administration will probably be sufficient,” Verner replies. “But we need to create an entire identity, with guilty court verdicts and psychiatric evaluations.”

  59

  Saga stands in the empty apartment with the two police chiefs. Every fiber of her being is screaming at her to say no.

  “Is this illegal?” she asks. Her mouth has gone dry.

  “Yes, of course. And it’s extremely confidential,” Carlos replies.

  “Extremely?” she replies, the corner of her mouth curling.

  “At National Crime, we’ll be declaring it confidential, so that the Security Police can’t see the file.”

  “And I’ll make sure that it’s declared confidential by the Security Police, so National Crime can’t see it,” Verner goes on.

  “No one will know about this unless there’s a direct request from the government,” Carlos says.

  Saga looks out of the window at the paneled façade of the neighboring building. A chimney vent glints at her, and she turns back toward the two men.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asks.

  “To save the girl,” Carlos says, with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

  “And I’m supposed to believe that the heads of National Crime and the Security Police are working together to—”

  “I knew Roseanna Kohler,” Carlos interrupts.

  “The mother?”

  “We were in the same class at Adolf Fredrik’s Music School. We were pretty close. We—it’s been very tough, very…”

  “So this is personal?” Saga asks, taking a step back.

  “No, it’s…it’s the only right thing to do. You can see that for yourself,” he replies, gesturing toward the folder.

  When Saga’s expression doesn’t change, he goes on: “But if you want me to be honest…I’m not sure we would have had a meeting quite like this if it wasn’t personal.”

  He starts fiddling with the sink tap. Saga watches him and senses that he’s not telling her the whole truth. “In what way is it personal?” she asks.

  “It’s not important,” he replies hastily.

  “You’re sure?”

  “What’s important is that we actually do this. It’s the right thing to do, the only right thing, because we believe the girl can still be saved.”

  “But we have to hurry. It’s possible that she has Legionnaires’ disease, like her brother,” Verner says. “So the plan is to send in an agent as quickly as we possibly can—that’s all, no large-scale operation.”

  “Obviously, we don’t know if Jurek Walter’s going to say anything, but there’s a chance. And everything suggests that it’s our only chance.”

  Saga stands perfectly still with her eyes closed for a long while.

  “What happens if I say no?” she asks. “Will you let the girl die in that damn place?”

  “We’ll find another agent,” Verner says.

  “Go ahead, then,” Saga says, and begins to walk toward the hall.

  “Do you want to think about it?” Carlos calls.

  She stops with her back to the two police chiefs and shakes her head. Light filters through her thick hair with the interwoven ribbons.

  “No,” she replies, and walks out of the apartment.

  60

  Saga takes the subway to Slussen, then walks the short distance to Stefan’s studio on Sankt Pauls Street. She’d called him a few times, but he hadn’t picked up.

  She feels relieved t
o have declined the difficult task of infiltrating Löwenströmska and getting involved in the Jurek Walter case.

  She strides up the steps and unlocks the door with the key that Stefan gave her. She can hear the sound of the piano. She goes in, sees Stefan sitting at the piano, and stops. His blue shirt is unbuttoned. He has a bottle of beer next to him, and the room smells of cigarette smoke.

  “I’m sorry for walking out on you yesterday,” she says after a brief pause.

  He goes on playing, softly, radiantly.

  “Can we talk?” she tries again.

  Stefan’s face is turned away, but she has no trouble hearing what he says: “I don’t want to have this conversation right now.”

  “Look, I’m sorry,” she repeats. “But you—”

  “I’m playing,” he interrupts.

  “But we need to talk about what happened.”

  “Just go,” he says, standing up to face her.

  Saga pushes him in the chest, so forcefully that he takes a step back and knocks over the piano stool. He stands there with his hands by his sides, looking her straight in the eye.

  “This isn’t working,” he says simply.

  He picks up the piano stool and rearranges his sheet music.

  “You’re overreacting,” she says.

  “I don’t want you to be upset,” he says with an emptiness in his voice that transforms her anger into dread.

  “What is it?” she asks.

  “This isn’t working. We’re always fighting. We can’t be together, we…”

  He goes quiet. She’s starting to feel sick.

  “Because I wanted to spend time with you last night?” she manages to say.

  Stefan glances up at her.

  “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and you’re smart and funny, and I ought to be the happiest man alive. I’m probably going to regret this for the rest of my life, but I don’t think we can be together.”

  “I don’t understand,” she whispers. “Because I got mad? Because I disturbed you when you were playing?”

  “No, it’s…”

  He sits down again and shakes his head.

  “I can change,” she says, and looks at him for a moment before going on. “It’s already too late, isn’t it?”

  When he nods, she turns and leaves the room. She goes out into the hallway, picks up an old stool, and throws it at the mirror. The splinters fall to the floor, shattering again as they hit the hard tiles. She shoves the front door open and runs down the stairs, straight out into the radiant blue winter light.

  61

  Saga runs along the pavement, between the buildings and the bank of snow lining the road. She breathes in the icy air so deeply that it hurts her lungs. She crosses the road, runs across Maria Square, then stops on the other side of Horns Street. She gathers some snow from a car roof and presses it to her hot, stinging eyes, then runs the rest of the way home.

  Her hands are shaking as she unlocks the door. She lets out a whimper as she steps into the hall and closes the door behind her. She lets the keys fall to the floor, kicks off her shoes, and walks straight through the apartment to her bedroom.

  Saga picks up the phone and dials the number, then stands while she waits. After six rings, she is put through to Stefan’s voice mail. She doesn’t listen to his message, just throws the phone at the wall as hard as she can.

  Still fully dressed, she lies down on the double bed and curls up. In the back of her mind, she can understand why she feels like this. When she was little, she woke up in her dead mother’s arms.

  Saga Bauer can no longer remember how old she was when her mother got sick. But when she was five, she learned that her mom had a serious brain tumor. The illness changed her mom in terrible ways. The poisoned cells made her distant and increasingly irritable.

  Her dad was hardly ever home. She hates remembering how he let them down. As an adult, she’s tried to tell herself that he was only human; he couldn’t help being weak. She repeats it like a mantra, but her fury at him won’t subside. It’s incomprehensible that he left and handed the burden to his young daughter. She doesn’t want to think about it, and never talks about it. It just makes her angry.

  The night the illness finally claimed her mother, she was so tired she needed help taking her medication. Saga gave her pill after pill, and ran to get more water.

  “I can’t take any more,” her mom whispered.

  “You have to.”

  “Just call Daddy and tell him I need him.”

  Saga did as her mom asked, and told her dad that he had to come home now.

  “Mommy knows I can’t,” he replied.

  Later that evening, her mom was very weak. She didn’t eat anything other than her medication, and shouted at Saga when she knocked over the bottle of pills on the rug. Her mom was in terrible pain, and Saga tried to comfort her.

  Her mom just asked Saga to call her dad and tell him she’d be dead before morning.

  Saga cried and said her mom couldn’t die, that she didn’t want to live if her mom died. Her tears were trickling into her mouth. She sat on the floor, listening to the sound of her own crying and her dad’s answering machine.

  When her mom finally fell asleep, Saga turned off the little lamp and stood by the bed. Her mom’s lips were shiny, and she was breathing heavily. Saga curled up in her warm embrace and fell asleep, exhausted. She slept beside her mom until she woke up early the next morning, frozen.

  * * *

  —

  Saga gets out of bed, takes off her coat, and lets it fall to the floor. She gets a pair of scissors from the kitchen and studies herself in the bathroom mirror. She can’t see the fairy-tale princess everybody says she reminds them of.

  Maybe I’m the only person who can save Felicia, she thinks, looking sternly at her own reflection.

  62

  A meeting was held just two hours after Saga Bauer told her boss that she’d changed her mind and was going to accept the job.

  Now Carlos Eliasson, Verner Zandén, Nathan Pollock, and Joona Linna are waiting in an apartment on the top floor of 71 Tanto Street, with a view of the rainbow arch of the railroad bridge.

  The apartment is furnished in a modern style, with white furniture and recessed lighting. On the large dining table in the living room are plates of sandwiches from a nearby restaurant.

  “I’m responsible for Saga. I want to bring at least one more agent into the ward, as a member of the staff, one who sits in the control room and keeps watch over every moment,” Verner says.

  “Jurek will know,” Joona says. “Never underestimate him. He will know, and he will see the connection with the new patient, and—”

  “I’ll take the risk,” Verner interrupts.

  “Then both Saga and Felicia are going to die.”

  Carlos is about to say something when Saga walks in. Verner stares at her and looks almost frightened, and Nathan Pollock slumps down at the table with a sad look on his face.

  Saga has shaved off her long hair. She has several grazes on her scalp. Her pale, beautiful head is graceful, with its small ears and her long, narrow neck. Her eyes are swollen from crying.

  Joona Linna walks over and gives her a hug. She holds him hard for a while, pressing her cheek to his chest and listening to the beat of his heart.

  “You don’t have to do this,” he says against her head.

  “I want to save the girl,” she replies quietly.

  She holds on for a few more seconds, then goes into the kitchen.

  “You know everyone here,” Verner says, pulling out a chair for her.

  “Yes.” Saga nods.

  She drops her dark-green parka on the floor and sits down. She’s wearing her usual clothes: a pair of black jeans and a zip-up hoodie from the boxing club.

  “If you really are prepared to go undercover in the same unit as Jurek Walter, we need to act at once,” Carlos says, unable to hide his enthusiasm.

  “I looked through your contr
act with us, and there are a few things that could be improved,” Verner adds quickly.

  “Good,” she mutters.

  “We may have room to increase your salary, and—”

  “I don’t really give a shit about that right now,” she interrupts.

  “You’re aware that there are certain risks associated with this mission?” Carlos asks.

  “I want to do this,” she says firmly.

  Verner pulls a gray phone from his bag, puts it on the table next to his usual cell phone, taps out a short text message, and looks up at her.

  “Shall we begin, then?” he asks.

  When she nods, he sends the message, which vanishes with a faint whoosh.

  “We have a few hours now to prepare you for what you’ll be faced with,” Joona says.

  “Let’s get started,” she says calmly.

  The men take out folders, open laptops, spread out their papers. The table is covered by big maps of the area around Löwenströmska Hospital, the drains, and a detailed plan of the psychiatric unit. Saga feels a shiver run through her arms when she sees how extensive the preparations are.

  “You’re going to get a conviction from the Uppsala District Court, and you’ll be sent to the women’s section of Kronoberg Prison first thing tomorrow morning,” Verner explains. “In the afternoon, you’ll be driven to Karsudden Hospital outside Katrineholm. That’ll take an hour or so. By then, the Prison Service Committee will be evaluating the proposal to transfer you to Löwenströmska.”

  “I’ve started sketching out a diagnosis that you’ll need to look at,” Nathan Pollock says, giving Saga a tentative smile. “You’ll be given a medical history, with a juvenile psychiatric record, emergency treatments, diagnoses, and all sorts of medication, leading up to the present.”

  “I understand,” she says.

  “Do you have any allergies or illnesses we should know about?”

  “No.”

  “No problems with your liver or heart?”

  “No,” Saga says.

  63

  On the pale wooden bookshelf of the borrowed apartment, there’s a framed photograph of a family in a pool. The dad’s nose is red with sunburn, and the two children are laughing as they hold up inflatable crocodiles.