The Rabbit Hunter

  Two bodyguards are following the Prime Minister and his wife up the steps.

  A dog starts barking and the security personnel lead one of the guests aside. He’s clearly annoyed, speaking strongly accented English as he gesticulates towards his waiting companions.

  The noise of a helicopter echoes between the buildings. An elderly man with a walker is being helped into the church.

  ‘Over here!’ DJ calls.

  Sammy and DJ are waving to him from the line at the foot of the steps. The black eyeliner his son is wearing only accentuates the paleness of his fragile features. Rex pushes his way through to them.

  ‘Where did you go?’ DJ asks.

  ‘I was talking to a journalist about my old friend,’ Rex replies.

  ‘That’s why we’re here,’ DJ says happily.

  ‘I know, but—’

  A woman further up the steps drops her bag. It rolls down and lipstick and other make-up spills out around people’s feet. A small mirror shatters as it hits the ground.

  Two security guards approach, looking concerned.

  On the deck just before the security check Rex is ushered to one side by a reporter from television news. He stands against the red-brick wall with his face suitably composed and talks about his long friendship and all the silly pranks they played on each other.

  He walks into the porch, is waved through the security scanner and passes the row of heavily armed guards. By the time he enters the church he can no longer see Sammy and DJ.

  Everyone is taking their seats, and sounds echo off the high walls.

  Rex walks down the central aisle, but he can’t see them anywhere. They must have gone up to the balcony. A man wearing black gloves pushes past him and keeps walking.

  The white coffin is lying in the chancel, draped in the Swedish flag.

  The bells start to ring and Rex has to quickly squeeze into one of the pews beside an elderly woman. She looks irritated at first, but then she recognises him and hands him an order of service.

  A blonde woman with unusually dark eyes meets his gaze, then looks away. She sits with her hands clasped between her thighs for a while before getting up and leaving the church.

  The organ starts to play the first hymn and the congregation gets to its feet. Rex turns and tries to find Sammy. The procession slowly moves along the aisle. The children’s choir gathers on the steps to the chancel while the priest walks up to the microphone.

  More scuffling as everyone sits down again, then the priest starts by saying that they have gathered to say farewell to the Foreign Minister and entrust him into the Lord’s hands.

  At the front sit the Foreign Minister’s family, and one row behind them are the Prime Minister and Teddy Johnson.

  Rex sees a sweaty-looking man in front of him tuck his bag under the pew with his feet.

  The choir starts to sing and Rex leans back and looks up at the vaulted ceiling, closes his eyes and listens to the high-pitched voices.

  He wakes with a start and wipes his mouth when the priest scatters a small amount of dirt on the lid of the coffin and says those unsettling words: ‘For you are dust, and to dust you shall return.’

  63

  The Rabbit Hunter is standing perfectly still, with his eyes downcast, as the lift carries him upward. He is in the northernmost of the two towers that stand on either side of Kungs Street, well outside the area cordoned off by the police.

  He wraps the leather strap with the rabbits’ ears around his head, ties it at the back, and listens to the whirr of the cables.

  He gets off on the fourteenth floor, walks past the milky-white glazed entrance to East Capital and continues up the staircase that winds around the lift-shaft.

  The new keys still meet some resistance as he unlocks the door to Scope Capital Advisory Ltd, disables the alarm and walks across the yellow rug covering the granite floor.

  There’s a vase of tulips on the reception desk, fallen petals curled on its black surface.

  The Rabbit Hunter bends down, grabs the corner of the yellow rug and pulls it behind him, past the empty, glass-walled offices.

  There are large lunette windows facing all directions – semi-circular frames, like setting suns – and all of Stockholm lies spread out below him.

  He doesn’t have much time.

  He goes into the north-facing conference room, dragging the mat with him over to one of the arched windows.

  He smashes the bottom pane of glass with the hilt of his knife, then quickly removes any sharp fragments from the frame using the back of the blade.

  Papers blow off a sideboard.

  He hurries around the conference table and shoves it across the floor towards the window. It hits the wall, knocking flakes of paint to the floor.

  He lifts the rug onto the table, spreads it out and folds it over, then grabs his black duffle bag from the cupboard. He quickly takes out his .300 Win Mag and unfolds it.

  He uses an Accuracy International, a repeat-cylinder sniper rifle, the new version with a curved magazine, improved loading chamber and shorter barrel.

  It takes him less than twenty seconds to put the weapon together, lie down on his stomach on the folded mat and aim the barrel of the rifle through the window.

  Across the rooftops of the buildings along Malmskillnads Street he can see the pale green copper roof of St Johannes’ Church, its spire pointing like a dagger towards the sky.

  When he was here earlier today, his rangefinder said that the distance to the church door was only three hundred and eighty-nine metres.

  He’s made a cheek-rest out of hard foam-rubber, which lets his eye rest at exactly the right height in relation to the rifle sight.

  The barrel is fitted with a muffler that reduces both the recoil and the flare. No one will be able to hear where the shot has come from. No one will see any flash of light.

  The Rabbit Hunter brushes the ears from his face, puts his right eye to the sights, and stares at the gilded letter Omega above the church door, then slowly moves down to the brown-black metal of the door-handle, and thinks back to the dry summer when he was nine years old.

  He remembers the excitement he felt as he crept through the abandoned greenhouses. Bleached light poured through the broken, dusty glass. Cautiously he walked out over the yellow grass and raised his little Remington Long Rifle, pressed the butt against his shoulder and rested his forefinger on the mounting.

  A dun-coloured rabbit darted and disappeared into the shade of a bush.

  He walked across some dirty cardboard lying on the ground, carefully going around a broken wicker chair, and waited thirty seconds. The next time he moved, the rabbit started to run. He followed it with the barrel, moved his finger to the trigger, took aim at the body, just behind the head, and fired. The rabbit jerked and tumbled forward a few times, then lay still.

  The door of St Johannes’ Church has opened now, and the funeral guests and security personnel are streaming out.

  Through the sights he looks at a young girl who has stopped on the second break in the steps. She can’t be more than twelve. He slowly moves down her neck. He sees the vein throbbing beneath her thin skin, the friendship necklace that is hanging slightly off-centre.

  The priest is standing right outside the door, talking with those who want to exchange a few words. The Prime Minister appears in the doorway with his wife and bodyguards. The Rabbit Hunter moves the sights so that the Prime Minister’s right ear is in the middle of the crosshairs.

  A flock of pigeons takes off as four black-clad police officers approach the church. The birds’ shadows move across the ground towards the steps.

  Teddy Johnson emerges between two American bodyguards, then stops to speak to the widow and her children.

  In his sights, the Rabbit Hunter can see the peeling skin of Johnson’s suntanned scalp through his thinning hair, and the drop of sweat trickling down his cheek. The politician nudges his glasses further up his nose, utters some consoling words, and moves down the step
s.

  Without losing his line of fire, the Rabbit Hunter picks up his unregistered mobile phone, sends the text message, then puts his finger back on the mounting again.

  He watches as Teddy Johnson, who feels the vibration, pulls out his iPhone, raises his glasses and looks at the screen.

  Ten little rabbits, all dressed in white,

  Tried to get to heaven on the end of a kite.

  Kite string got broken, down they all fell,

  Instead of going to heaven, they all went to …

  The Rabbit Hunter knows the wind is so weak that it won’t have any effect on the bullet. And the distance is far too short for him to have to take account of the Coriolis effect, the rotation of the earth.

  64

  The Rabbit Hunter has less than one kilo of resistance in the trigger. It’s so weak that it almost isn’t there.

  First you haven’t fired the rifle, then you have.

  It comes as no surprise, but the action has no defined edges.

  Now he can see black-clad, heavily armed police officers talking into their radios. An Alsatian dog is lying down on one of the gravel paths between the graves, panting.

  Teddy Johnson looks around, puts the phone back in his inside pocket and fastens the top button of his jacket.

  The thin crosshairs rest gently on the back of his suntanned neck, then move slowly down to the small of his back. The Rabbit Hunter’s intention is to hit Teddy Johnson’s spinal column just above his pelvis.

  A branch from a tree moves across his line of fire and he waits three heartbeats before putting his finger on the trigger.

  He squeezes it gently, feels the jolt in his shoulder and sees Teddy Johnson collapse to the ground.

  Blood pumps out across the steps.

  The bodyguards draw their pistols and try to figure out where the shot came from, and if there’s anywhere they can take cover, any safe place in the vicinity.

  The Rabbit Hunter breathes calmly as he catches a glimpse of the shot man’s face, its look of terror. He can’t feel his lower body at all now, and is gasping for breath.

  The bodyguards try to protect him, standing in the way of any further bullets, but they don’t know where the sniper is.

  The crosshairs move down Johnson’s right arm. The trigger squeezes and his hand jerks as it is transformed into a ragged, bloody lump.

  The bodyguards drag Teddy Johnson to the other end of the steps, leaving a dark-red stain across the stone.

  People are panicking, running around and screaming as they try to get away. The stairs are empty now.

  The American politician lies there, contorted with pain and mortal dread.

  The Rabbit Hunter will let him live for nineteen minutes.

  While he waits he strokes one of the rabbits’ ears with his fingers, feeling its thin cartilage move beneath his hand as the soft fur brushes his cheek.

  Without losing sight of his target the Rabbit Hunter changes magazines, inserting heavier, soft-tipped ammunition, then he watches Teddy Johnson suffer, his drawn-out death-throes.

  The first ambulances are already on their way into Döbelns Street.

  The police are trying to organise the hunt for the sniper, but they still have no idea where the shots are coming from. Someone stares at the splatter pattern from the first shot and points in his direction, towards the roof of the nearby fire-station.

  Three police helicopters hover above the blocks surrounding the church.

  The paramedics have reached Teddy Johnson. They’re trying to talk to him, then they lift him onto a stretcher.

  The Rabbit Hunter looks at the time again. Four minutes left. He needs to delay the rescue operation.

  Calmly he turns the gun towards the steps leading down towards the French School, moving the crosshairs from a frightened man with fat cheeks to a middle-aged woman with a depressing hairstyle and a press badge dangling from her neck.

  He only shoots her in the ankle, but the ammunition is so powerful that her foot is torn off and bounces down the steps towards the pavement. The blast sends her tumbling over, and she collapses onto her side.

  The ambulances back away and panic-stricken people crouch down as they run away from the woman. An old man falls down and hits his face on the dusty path, but no one stops to help him.

  The officers from the Security Police are trying to understand what’s going on, trying to save the life of the American politician as they beckon paramedics. Another ambulance turns into Johannes Street.

  Breathing calmly, the Rabbit Hunter looks at the time.

  Forty seconds left.

  Teddy Johnson’s face is pale and sweaty. He has an oxygen-mask over his nose and mouth, and his eyes are blinking rapidly in panic.

  The paramedics wheel the stretcher along the path towards Johannes Street. The crosshairs follow him, quivering over his ear.

  They push the stretcher onto the pavement and the Rabbit Hunter fixes the sights on Teddy Johnson’s ear again, squeezes the trigger and feels the jolt from the recoil in his shoulder.

  The man’s head explodes. Bone and tissue spray across the street. The paramedics go on pushing the stretcher for a few seconds before they stop and stare at the American VIP. The oxygen-mask is dangling from its tube by the side of the stretcher, and there is nothing where his face used to be but a small fragment of the back of his skull.

  65

  It took Rex three hours to get out of the church. The police ushered the funeral guests out one at a time through a gap in the security barrier, down Döbelns Street. They conducted careful identity checks on everyone, took brief witness statements, and offered information about support groups.

  He saw Edith among the reporters who had gathered outside the cordon and tried without success to catch her eye.

  No one seemed to know what had happened, and the police were refusing to talk.

  The Foreign Minister’s immediate family and the most important politicians had been allowed to leave the church before everyone else. Rex was still stuck in the crowd in the central aisle when he heard screaming and people started fleeing back into the church.

  Forty minutes later the police came in and announced that they had the situation under control.

  The fire department started washing the blood from the broad flight of stairs as tearful people milled around trying to find family members.

  Rex managed to call Sammy and DJ and they arranged to meet back at the flat, where they would try to figure out what had happened. There were rumours of a terrorist attack, and the media were reporting a serious incident with an unknown number of casualties.

  Rex removes the tray of scones and pours the steaming tea while the other two sit at the kitchen table trying to find out more on the Internet.

  ‘It looks like that American politician was killed,’ Sammy says.

  ‘What a mess,’ DJ says, setting out the butter and jam next to the cups and saucers.

  ‘This is completely fucking insane,’ Rex says.

  ‘I tried to get out the same way we got in,’ Sammy says. ‘David Bagares Street, but it was closed off.’

  ‘I know,’ DJ says. ‘I tried the steps next to Drottninghuset.’

  ‘Whereabouts were you sitting?’ Rex says, carrying over the plate of scones.

  ‘We both ended up on the balcony.’

  ‘I was right by the aisle,’ Rex says.

  ‘We saw you, Dad. You were sitting like this the whole time,’ his son says, shutting his eyes and opening his mouth.

  ‘I was enjoying the music,’ Rex says feebly.

  ‘So obviously you noticed us trying to flick little rolled-up pieces of paper in your mouth?’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure I won,’ Sammy smiles, running his hand through his hair in exactly the same way Rex always does.

  A plaster is hanging off Sammy’s lower arm, and Rex catches a glimpse of a row of cigarette burns.

  DJ holds his phone up and Rex looks at the picture of T
eddy Johnson’s suntanned face, plump frame, and the look of arrogance in his bright blue eyes.

  ‘They’re saying that there are no links to any known terrorist organisations,’ Sammy says.

  ‘So did they catch the guy?’ DJ asks.

  ‘I don’t know. It doesn’t say …’

  ‘What is it with this summer?’ Rex says heavily. ‘It feels like the whole world is falling apart. Orlando, Munich, Nice …’

  He falls silent when the doorbell rings, then mutters that he really doesn’t want to deal with any reporters right now, and leaves the kitchen. As he goes down the stairs the bell rings again. He reaches the door and opens it.

  Outside stands a man with shoulder-length red hair and a sweaty face. He’s wearing a tight leather jacket with shoulder pads and a wide belt.

  ‘Hi,’ he says, smiling so broadly that the lines around his mouth and eyes scrunch together.

  ‘Hi,’ Rex says uncertainly.

  ‘Janus Mickelsen, Security Police,’ the man says, holding up his ID. ‘Do you have a minute?’

  ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘Good question,’ he smiles, looking over Rex’s shoulder.

  ‘You’ve already been here.’

  ‘Yes, exactly, that’s right, Officer Bauer … I’m working with her,’ he replies, tossing his hair back from his face.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘So you really liked the Foreign Minister,’ the man says with a familiarity in his voice that sends shivers down Rex’s spine.

  ‘You mean politically?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We were old friends,’ Rex says guardedly.

  ‘His wife says she’s never met you.’

  ‘I clearly didn’t make much of an impression,’ Rex says, forcing a smile.

  Without returning the smile, Janus walks into the hall and shuts the door behind him. He glances around, then looks at Rex intently again.

  ‘Do you know anyone who was … less fond of the Foreign Minister than you were?’

  ‘If he had any enemies, you mean?’