‘As you know, I spoke to the witness after our meeting … and in my considered opinion, our killer has received military training that’s at least as good as the training for the US Navy Seals.’
‘OK, that’s useful,’ Gustav says in a serious voice.
‘For God’s sake, we’ve got six snipers in position, including me,’ Janus says. ‘We’ve got twenty-six men from the Rapid Response Unit armed with automatic machineguns, stun grenades and M46s.’
‘I just want you to be prepared for the fact that this guy will be able to see through your tactics without even thinking,’ Joona says. ‘He’ll exploit the things you pride yourself on: he knows how you sweep rooms, how you hold your guns.’
‘This is supposed to scare you,’ Janus says, patting Gustav on the shoulder.
Beads of sweat are trickling down his freckled brow from his hair.
‘We haven’t prepared for that,’ Gustav says, wiping his mouth.
‘If you suffer any losses, you need to abandon standard procedure,’ Joona says, wishing that the young man was nowhere near this operation.
‘I’ll go down and discuss alternative tactics with my team,’ Gustav says, blushing slightly. ‘I can’t have you telling Aunt Anja I made a fool of myself, can I?’
‘Just be careful,’ Joona says.
‘We’re all prepared to die in the memory of our esteemed Foreign Minister,’ Janus whispers, then grins.
Gustav disappears downstairs with his helmet in his hand.
Joona goes into the bedroom facing the trees and looks at the computer screen that shows what’s going on in the street outside. The branches of some bare trees are moving in the wind in front of Parisa’s home.
10 Gnestavägen is a yellow terraced house from the 1950s. There’s a pile of dry leaves next to the cracked steps, and an old broom leaning against the wall.
Parisa is expected home in twenty-five minutes.
Janus comes in with the plans from the City Council’s housing department.‘We haven’t spotted any sign of activity in the house since Parisa left this morning,’ he says, laying the plans on the table. ‘But there are a couple of blind spots.’
‘The hallway and bathroom,’ Joona says, pointing at the paper.
‘And upstairs someone could be lying in the bath or on the floor. But the biggest unmonitored spaces are the boiler and utility rooms.’
‘The house was built in the fifties, so there could be a pretty big bomb-shelter down there, and—’
‘Hang on,’ Janus interrupts, and answers a call on his radio. He listens, then turns back towards Joona. ‘Parisa’s earlier than we expected. She’s on her way now, she’ll be home in less than five minutes.’
41
Janus changes frequency on his radio and informs all units that Parisa is on her way.
‘Joona, you’ve come up with a lot of warnings, and I just want to say that if things go wrong …’ Janus says, looking at him intently. ‘If we have to break in, make your way upstairs. There’s a trapdoor in the wardrobe that leads up into the crawl space and out onto the roof.’
The screen shows Parisa approaching the house carrying bags of groceries. She’s wearing a thin black coat, a pink hijab and black leather boots with a slight heel.
She removes some junk-mail from the letterbox, puts her bags down and unlocks the front door.
‘We need to get you wired,’ Janus says. ‘Go into the bedroom on the right and Siv will be with you as soon as I can find her.’
Joona goes back out onto the landing and into the bedroom. A young woman in a black polo-shirt is sitting on the chair by the window facing the street. When she hears him come in she stands up.
‘My name’s Jennifer,’ she says, shaking his hand.
‘I don’t want to disturb you, but …’
‘You’re not disturbing me,’ the woman says quickly, and brushes a lock of hair from her face.
‘I just need help with a microphone.’
Jennifer’s hair is tied up in a ponytail, and she’s wearing black cargo trousers and heavy boots. Her helmet, goggles and bulletproof vest are on the floor beside the chair.
Joona sees that she’s got a sniper rifle, a PSG 90, mounted on a sturdy tripod. She can switch the barrel from one side of the window to the other in one swift movement.
Three extra magazines are lined up on a small table beside a box of ammunition – 7.62mm – and a green bottle of Pellegrino.
A ballistics chart has fallen from the box onto the floor. Joona doesn’t think it matters; she won’t be needing it anyway. The rifle has an exit velocity of almost 1,300 metres per second, and the distance here is no more than 60 metres.
Joona takes off his jacket and puts it on the bed, loosens his holster and then starts to unbutton his shirt.
‘Parisa’s up in the bedroom now,’ Jennifer says. ‘Do you want to see?’
He goes over and looks through the sniper-sight, increases the magnification to eight, and sees Parisa taking off her hijab. Her hair is gathered in a thick, black plait that hangs down her back. In the crosshairs he can see her face clearly: the pores of her nose, the birthmark above one eyebrow, and a thick line down one cheek where she’s smudged her eyeliner.
When she goes into the bathroom Joona notes that the door to a large cupboard with gold and brown medallion wallpaper is open.
That must be where the ladder to the crawl space is.
He straightens up and looks at the house. In the gap between the curtains he can see Parisa’s shadow moving behind the textured glass in the bathroom window.
The sound engineer from the surveillance group comes in. Siv is a middle-aged woman with dark-blue eyes and shoulder-length blonde hair. She stops, her white blouse straining over her chest as she breathes.
She stares at Joona with a look of concentration on her face. He’s standing bare-chested in the middle of the room. All that exercise in prison has given him plenty of muscle. His torso bears the scars from where he’s been both shot and stabbed in the past.
She walks slowly around him, feeling below his right shoulder- blade and lifting his arm slightly. Jennifer watches them and can’t help smiling.
‘I think I’ll position the microphone just below your left pectoral muscle,’ Siv says eventually, and opens a plastic case with a padded black base.
‘OK.’
Siv fixes the microphone in place and tries to smooth the tape.
‘Sorry, my hands are cold,’ she says hoarsely.
‘No problem.’
‘I can do it instead,’ Jennifer suggests. ‘I’ve got warm hands.’
Siv pretends not to hear her. She adds another strip of tape, then checks that the transmitter works. They hear their voices through the receiver, but the proximity to the microphone creates a powerful echo.
‘Can I get dressed?’ Joona asks.
Siv doesn’t answer, and Jennifer stifles a giggle. Joona thanks her for her help, pulls on his shirt, fastens the holster and then puts his jacket back on.
‘This microphone is practically undetectable,’ Siv says. ‘And the range is more than enough for the house, but won’t reach much further, just so you know.’
They’re testing the reception once again when Janus comes in holding up his laptop. Joona watches the camera follow Parisa as she goes downstairs in her bra and a pair of soft tracksuit bottoms. She walks into the kitchen and starts eating crisps from a silver bag.
Joona checks his pistol, borrows Siv’s tape and straps up the bottom of the butt, the way he always does. He releases the magazine, quickly tests the mechanism, trigger and pin, then puts the safety catch back on, reinserts the magazine and feeds a bullet into the chamber.
‘I’ll get going,’ he says tersely.
As he goes downstairs he sees Gustav standing in the darkened hallway with his hands over his face, his semiautomatic rifle hanging by his hip.
‘How are you doing?’ Joona asks.
Gustav startles slightly. He lowers his han
ds and looks embarrassed. His usually happy face is tense and shiny with sweat.
‘I’ve just got this really weird feeling,’ he says in a low voice. ‘There’s something bothering me. Maybe the whole house has been booby-trapped.’
‘Just be careful,’ Joona says again.
Security Agent Ingrid Holm, who showed him the way through the woods before, is waiting outside to lead him back to his car without being seen from the street.
42
Joona leaves the area and drives around Bandhagen before going back to the quiet residential district again, so the engine isn’t cold when he arrives.
He parks a short distance away from Parisa’s house.
The leafy tops of some tall birch trees are visible above the tiled roof.
The area is calm. It seems almost asleep.
Joona hasn’t seen any sign of the response team, but he knows they’re there, waiting for a final command, nervous and impatient, full of the conflicting energy that comes from both longing for the timeless moment when everything happens, and fearing injury or death.
If they were to start firing they could perforate the entire row of houses in less than a minute.
Joona approaches the front door, thinking about the detailed map of the area that was hanging on the wall, which showed the danger zones on both sides of the house. The positions of all operational units and their individual approach trajectories had also been marked.
A tree rustles in the wind. Joona hears a car in the distance.
He reaches out and presses the doorbell.
He knows that snipers are watching the door.
A woman pushing a pushchair emerges from one of the houses down by the cul-de-sac. Her blonde ponytail bounces as she walks. She comes closer, then stops suddenly and answers her phone.
Joona rings the bell again.
A ventilation fan whirrs into action on a rooftop, then quiets almost immediately. The woman with the pushchair is still standing where she was, talking on her phone.
There’s a rumbling sound as a dustbin lorry turns into Gnestavägen and stops with a hiss at the end of the road.
Two men get out to collect the rubbish.
Joona hears footsteps inside the house and moves away from the window. Parisa Ratjen puts the safety-chain on the door before opening. She’s fully dressed again, the same pink hijab as before, and a thick sweater that reaches down to her thighs. She’s slightly built, not very tall. She’s wearing subtle make-up, just lipstick and eyeshadow.
‘I’ve got a message from da gawand halak,’ Joona says.
Her gaze flutters for half a second. She looks past him, out at the street, then back to him again. She takes a deep breath and closes the door.
The woman with the pushchair ends her call and starts walking again. She approaches Parisa’s house just as the rubbish collectors return to their vehicle.
Joona moves aside so the snipers can aim at the crack in the door that will appear if it opens again.
The dustbin lorry rumbles past towards the cul-de-sac.
Parisa removes the safety-chain, opens the door again and asks him to come in. She closes the door behind him, locks it and looks through the spyhole.
The house looks exactly like the plan. On the left is a narrow, curving staircase leading to the bedroom.
Parisa leads him up a couple of steps to the living room, which faces the back of the house.
He follows her, watching the way her clothes hang as she walks.
She’s not carrying a gun or wearing a bomb.
The worn floor is partially covered by an attractive rug. The windows and half-glazed terrace door have lace curtains.
‘Please, have a seat,’ she says quietly. ‘Can I offer you some tea?’
‘Thank you,’ he says, sitting down on the brown leather sofa.
She walks past a brick fireplace with no ash or firewood in it and goes into the kitchen. He sees her glance through the window at the street, then take a pot out of a drawer.
Joona reminds himself of what he knows about the killer, the way the man moved across the floor in the Foreign Minister’s home, replacing the magazine in his pistol and feeding a bullet into the chamber without losing his line of fire.
Parisa returns with small glasses of tea on a silver tray, a bowl of sugar and two ornate spoons. She puts the tray on a round brass table, then sits down across from him. Her slender feet are bare and neat, and her toenails are painted dark gold.
‘Salim has been moved from Hall Prison to Kumla,’ Joona begins.
‘To Kumla?’ she asks, tugging gently at her sweater. ‘Why?’
Her face is lively and intelligent, and her eyes betray a gentle scepticism, as if she can’t conceal a weariness at the absurdity of everything that’s happened to her.
‘I don’t know. He didn’t explain the reason, but he wanted you to know that he can’t make outgoing calls any more, and that no one can contact him for the time being.’
Joona raises the slender glass to his lips as he thinks about what Salim Ratjen said, that he should wait until she served him bread and olives before passing on the real message.
‘So you know Salim?’ she asks, tilting her head slightly.
‘No,’ Joona admits frankly. ‘But he was put on my block … and it’s always good to look out for each other.’
‘I can understand that.’
‘I was granted a day’s leave, so you always try to help the others if you can.’
A scraping sound makes Parisa glance quickly towards the garden. The snipers at the back presumably have her in their sights right now.
‘So what was the message he wanted you to pass on?’ she asks.
‘He wanted me to let you know he’d been moved.’
Parisa spills a little tea, and when Joona leans over to pass her a napkin he feels his holster and pistol slip forward slightly.
‘Thanks,’ she says.
Joona realises that she’s seen the gun. Her dark eyes are glassier, and she looks down for a moment, pretends to blow on her tea. He understands that she’s trying to control her nerves.
The pistol hasn’t necessarily blown his cover. She believes he’s a criminal, but the situation has suddenly become more dangerous.
‘Let me get us something to eat,’ she says, and disappears back into the kitchen.
Joona sees small flakes of ash drifting down from the chimney and hears a dull thud from above.
The operational unit is moving across the roof.
The dustbin lorry stops in front of the house with a heavy wheezing sound.
Parisa comes back and puts a bowl of olives and two small forks on the table.
‘I was very young when we got married,’ she says quietly, looking Joona in the eye. ‘I’d only just arrived from Afghanistan. It was after the 2005 election.’
Joona isn’t sure if he should pass on the message. She’s offered olives, but no bread. Parisa glances anxiously towards the kitchen. There’s a shrieking sound as the dustbin lorry compresses the rubbish. A glass jar shatters with a crack. Parisa startles, then does her best to smile at Joona.
43
Parisa eats some of the olives herself and looks at him. Her pupils are dilated and her hands sink back onto her lap.
‘Would you like to send a message back to Salim?’ Joona says.
‘Yes,’ she replies hesitantly. ‘Tell him things are fine with me, and that I can’t wait for him to be free.’
Joona takes an olive and notices that the shadows of the branches on the wall above the television are suddenly moving to a different rhythm. Something’s happening. He imagines he can sense the team approaching from the woods. He doesn’t look towards the window overlooking the porch, knows he probably wouldn’t be able to see them anyway.
‘Afghanistan is so different … Yesterday I read an article I’d been saving, from The Telegraph, about the “international day of silliness”,’ Parisa says, smiling gently. ‘Suddenly everyone in London decided n
ot to wear trousers on the underground. Does that happen in Stockholm too?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so,’ he replies, and looks at the big olives.
A startled magpie suddenly lets out a chattering cry. There’s a creaking sound from below, as if someone is in the basement.
‘I once saw a group of girls get thrown out of the swimming pool because they refused to wear bikini tops,’ she says.
‘Yes, that’s become a bit of a thing,’ Joona replies calmly.
A reflected glint of sunlight moves across the wall behind Parisa. She picks up her phone, taps a message and sends it.
‘I understand that it’s about equality,’ she says, putting her phone down again. ‘But even so … why do they want to show their breasts to everyone?’
‘Swedes have a fairly relaxed attitude towards nakedness,’ he says, moving forward so that his pistol will be easier to reach.
‘Even if you don’t ride on the underground without trousers here,’ she smiles, and rubs her legs nervously.
‘That’ll probably come,’ Joona replies.
‘No,’ she laughs, and a tiny bead of sweat trickles down her cheek from her hair.
‘Swedes are very fond of swimming naked when they get out in the countryside.’
‘Maybe I’ll learn to do that too,’ she says, and looks out through the window at the forest.
She stares dreamily for a few seconds, then turns back towards the room. There’s a strange stiffness in her neck.
It looks almost intentional when she drops her teaspoon. It tinkles against the hardwood floor.
She picks it up carefully and puts it on the tray. When she looks up at him again, her eyes are frightened and her lips are pale.
Janus told Joona to make his way up to the crawl space via the cupboard and run across the rooftops towards the cul-de-sac, where a helicopter would get him.
‘Salim was a different man when we got married,’ she says, standing up. ‘I’ve got our wedding photograph in the hall.’
Joona stands up and follows her to the hall, which is one of the few places in the house where none of the snipers can see them.
The photograph is hanging on the wall by the stairs. Salim looks happy, in a white suit with a red rose in his buttonhole. Parisa is very young, in a white wedding dress and hijab. They’re surrounded by relatives and friends in long dresses and suits.