The Nightmare

  “You’re thinking we should give him the chance to lie,” Saga says. “To claim that he wasn’t there and that he hasn’t met Palmcrona, Agathe al-Haji, and Raphael.”

  “If he denies he was there, then the meeting itself was the secret.”

  “And if he starts to lie, we have him in a trap.”

  They pass Handen and then turn off at the Jordbrolänken exit. They roll into an industrial area surrounded by silent forest.

  The head office for Silencia Defense is located in a dull-gray impersonal concrete building. Joona takes a good look at it, with its blacktinted windows. He thinks again about the four people in the photo, which unleashed a chain of violence leading to a dead young girl and the sorrow of her mother. Perhaps Penelope Fernandez and Björn Almskog are also dead by now because of this picture. Joona steps out of the car and his jaw tightens. Pontus Salman, one of the people in this enigmatic photograph, is inside this building right now.

  The original photograph is safely in the hands of the National Forensic Laboratory in Linköping. Tommy Kofoed has created a copy that appears old and worn like the original. One corner is missing and tape remains are seen on the others. Kofoed has rendered Pontus Salman’s face and hand blurry so that it appears that Salman was moving at the moment the photograph was taken.

  Salman will think that he’s in luck—he alone is unrecognizable. Nothing connects him to the meeting with Raphael Guidi, Carl Palmcrona, and Agathe al-Haji. The only thing he needs to do is deny that it’s him. It’s not a crime to not recognize oneself in a blurry picture and to not remember meeting certain people.

  They start toward the entrance.

  If he denies it, we’ve caught him in a lie and we know he wants to keep something secret.

  The air is oppressively hot and humid.

  Saga nods seriously at Joona as they walk through the shiny, heavy entrance doors.

  And if Salman starts to lie, Joona thinks, we’ll make sure he continues to lie until he’s so entangled he can’t get free.

  The reception area is large and cold.

  When Pontus Salman looks at the photograph and says that he can’t identify the people in it, we’ll say that it’s unfortunate that he can’t help us, Joona continues to think. We’ll get ready to leave and then we’ll stop and ask him to take one more look with a magnifying glass. The technician has left a signet ring visible on the hanging hand. We’ll ask Pontus Salman if he recognizes the clothes, the shoes, or the pinkie ring. He’ll be forced to lie again, and then we will have reason to bring him in for questioning and press him harder.

  Behind the reception desk, there is a lighted red emblem emblazoned with the company name and a serpentine logo encircled by runes.

  “ ‘He fought as long as he had a weapon,’ ” Joona says.

  “Can you read runes now?” asks Saga skeptically.

  Joona points at the sign with the translation as he walks to the reception desk. A pale man with thin, dry lips is ensconced behind the desk.

  “Pontus Salman,” Joona says shortly.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “Two o’clock,” Saga says.

  The receptionist shuffles through some papers, flips to one, and reads.

  “Yes, that’s right,” he says as he raises his eyes. “Unfortunately, Pontus Salman sends his regrets. He cannot make this meeting.”

  “We received no notice of a cancellation,” Saga says. “We must talk to him—”

  “I am very sorry.”

  “Please call him. Tell him we’re here,” Saga says.

  “I’ll try, but I believe … he’s in a meeting.”

  “On the fourth floor,” Joona inserts.

  “The fifth,” the receptionist corrects automatically.

  Saga sits down in one of the reception chairs. The sun streams in through the windows and spreads like fire in her hair. Joona remains standing as the receptionist lifts his phone to his ear and taps a number. The busy signal sounds and the receptionist shakes his head.

  “Hang up,” Joona says. “We’ll just surprise him instead.”

  “Surprise him?” the receptionist repeats uncertainly.

  Joona simply walks to the glass door beyond the reception desk and opens it.

  “You don’t even need to tell him we’re coming,” Joona says. Saga gets up from the chair and follows Joona.

  “Wait!” the man calls out. “I’ll try to—”

  They keep walking through the hallway and into an open elevator. They punch the button for the fifth floor. The door closes and the elevator moves silently upward.

  Pontus Salman is waiting for them when the doors open. He is about forty years old and there is a worn, tired look to his face.

  “Welcome,” he says drily.

  “Thanks.”

  Pontus Salman looks them over.

  “A detective and a fairy-tale princess,” he says.

  As they follow Salman through a long hallway, Joona runs through their plan in his mind.

  Joona feels a cold shiver down his back—as if Viola Fernandez is opening her eyes right then in her cold box, watching him expectantly.

  The hallway is lined with dark-tinted glass, creating an aura of timelessness. The office itself is fairly large and contains a desk of elm wood and a light gray sofa group around a black glass coffee table.

  They each take one of the stuffed chairs. Pontus Salman smiles cheerlessly and forms a steeple with his hands. Then he asks, “Why are you here?”

  “You know that Carl Palmcrona of ISP is dead?” asks Saga.

  Salman nods. “I heard it was a suicide.”

  “Our investigation into that is not yet finished,” Saga says in a friendly manner. “We’re following up on a photograph we found. We want to find out who these people are around Palmcrona.”

  “Three of them are clear, but one person is blurry,” Joona says.

  “We’d like some of your employees to take a look, too. Perhaps someone will recognize him. One hand, for instance, is a little sharper.”

  “I understand,” Salman says and purses his lips.

  “Maybe someone can tell who it is from the context,” Saga says. “It’s worth a try.”

  “We’ve visited Patria and Saab Bofors Dynamics,” Joona says. “None of them knows.”

  Pontus Salman’s tired face shows nothing at all. Joona wonders to himself if Salman takes pills to keep calm and self-confident. There’s something remarkably lifeless in his eyes—a lack of expression and contact—as if something inside has slid away, leaving him with no connection to anything at all.

  “You must think this is important,” Salman says, crossing one leg over the other.

  “Indeed we do,” Saga says.

  “May I see this unusual photograph?” Pontus Salman asks in his easy but impersonal manner.

  “Besides Palmcrona, we’ve identified the weapons dealer, Raphael Guidi,” Joona says. “We’ve also identified Agathe al-Haji, who is the military adviser for President al-Bashir … but no one recognizes this fourth person.”

  Joona takes out the folder, and then hands over the photograph in its protective plastic cover. Saga points to the blurred person. Joona watches her concentrate on Salman to register every nuance, every nervous signal in his body if he lies.

  Salman moistens his lips and, even though his cheeks turn pale before he smiles, he taps the photograph and says, “But that’s me!”

  “It’s you?”

  “Yes,” he says with a laugh, revealing small, childlike front teeth.

  “But—”

  “We had a meeting in Frankfurt,” he continues with a pleased smile. “We were listening to a wonderful … well, I don’t remember what they were playing … maybe Beethoven …”

  Joona tries to understand this unexpected confession. He clears his throat.

  “You’re absolutely sure?”

  “Of course,” Salman says.

  “Well, that solves that puzzle,” Saga says warmly with n
o hint of their miscalculation.

  “Maybe I should get a job at Säpo,” Salman jokes.

  “If I may ask, what was this meeting about?” asks Joona.

  “I can talk about it now.” Salman laughs and looks directly at Joona. “This photo was taken in the spring of 2008. We were discussing a shipment of ammunition to Sudan. Agathe al-Haji was negotiating on behalf of the government. The area needed to stabilize after the peace agreement in 2005. The negotiations were fairly far along, but all our work went up in smoke in the spring of 2009, of course. We were shaken, yes, you understand … and since then, we’ve had no contact with Sudan.”

  Joona looks at Saga since he has no idea what happened in the spring of 2009. Saga is wearing a neutral expression, so he decides to ask another question.

  “How many meetings did you have?”

  “Just the one,” he answers. “And even I can see how it appears odd that the director of ISP is accepting a glass of champagne.”

  “You think?” Saga asks.

  “There was nothing to celebrate. But perhaps he was just thirsty,” Salman says with a smile.

  50

  the hiding place

  Penelope and Björn have no idea how long they’ve remained hidden within this deep crevice on the face of a cliff. They simply couldn’t run any farther. Their bodies were beyond exhausted and they’d taken turns sleeping and keeping watch.

  In the beginning, it seemed as if their pursuer had anticipated every move they’d made, but now the sense of his immediate presence was gone. For some time, he’d been noticeably quiet. That clammy feeling on their backs, the chilling sensation of someone running right behind them, had disappeared the moment they made the unpredictable choice of heading for the center of the forest and away from humankind and the mainland.

  Penelope is uncertain if her mother’s answering machine caught any of her words. But soon someone will find Björn’s boat, she thinks. After that, the police will start looking for us. All they need to do is stay hidden long enough from their pursuer.

  Although the rounded rock surface above is covered in moss, the crevice in the cliff is bare stone and in many spots clear water is dripping. It had been hot when they first found this spot, and they had lapped the water and decided to stay for the rest of the day. Toward evening, as the sun sank behind the shadow of the trees, they’d fallen asleep.

  Dreams and dozing memories are mixed in Penelope’s mind. She hears Viola play “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” on her tiny violin with stickers on the fingerboard to show where the fingers should go. She watches Viola put on pink eye shadow and pinch her cheeks in front of the mirror.

  Penelope gasps when she wakes up.

  Björn is sitting wide awake with his arms around his knees and trembling.

  This is the dawn after the third night and they can’t bear it any longer. They are hungry and weak. They leave their hiding place and begin to walk.

  It’s almost morning when Penelope and Björn come to the water’s edge. The sun’s red rays form glowing streaks along the long veils of clouds. The water is still in the morning calm. Two mute swans glide beside each other on the surface, paddling quietly away.

  Björn extends his hand to lead Penelope to the water. His legs wobble with fatigue. He slips, then steadies himself on a rock as he gets back up. Penelope looks stiffly straight ahead with an empty gaze as she takes off her shoes, ties the laces together, and hangs them around her neck.

  “Come on,” Björn whispers. “We’re just going swimming. Don’t think about it. Just keep swimming.”

  Penelope wants to ask him to wait. She’s not sure she can do this, but he’s already wading into the water. She shivers and looks out toward the island opposite them and farther out in the archipelago.

  She wades in and feels the cold water around her calves and then her thighs. The bottom under her feet is rocky and slippery but soon disappears deeper underwater. She has no time to hesitate but glides into swimming as she follows Björn.

  Her arms ache and her clothes drag on her as she starts to swim to the far shore. Björn is already way ahead.

  It’s a major effort. Every stroke feels unendurable as every muscle cries out for rest.

  The island of Kymmendö is a sandy beach on the other side. Penelope kicks with exhausted legs, fighting to stay afloat. The first rays of sun over the treetops are blinding. They hurt her eyes and she stops swimming. She’s not cramping up but her arms can do no more; they’re giving up. In just a few seconds, her wet clothes start to drag her below the surface before her arms obey her commands again. When she breaks the surface and gasps for air, she’s terrified. Adrenaline pumps through her body and she sucks in more air, but she has lost her direction. She sees only ocean. Desperately she treads water and swirls around just keeping herself from wild screams. Finally she spots Björn’s bobbing head, barely above the surface of the water, about fifty meters ahead. Penelope starts to swim again, but she’s not sure she’ll ever make it to the other island.

  The shoes around her neck hinder her strokes and she tries to get rid of them, but the laces tangle in her crucifix. Then the thin chain of her crucifix snaps and everything sinks to the bottom of the sea.

  She swims onward, feeling her heart pound in her chest. It takes a moment or so to realize she can see Björn staggering up onto land. He’s looking back for her when he should be finding cover. For all they know, their pursuer could be on the north shore of Ornö Island, searching for them through his binoculars.

  Penelope slows down more and more. She feels the weight and the slowness in her legs as the lactic acid spreads through them. She can barely swim at all. Björn looks fearful. He wades back into the water toward her. She is almost ready to give up, but takes one stroke after another. At last she feels the ground beneath her feet. Björn is in the water beside her and he wraps his arm around her and pulls her close and then up onto the pebble-filled sandy beach.

  “Hide,” Penelope whispers hoarsely.

  He helps her past the beach and in among the spruce trees, until they can no longer see the ocean. They fall down on some moss and blueberries and hug, as much to warm themselves as to comfort each other.

  “We can’t keep this up,” Penelope says through chattering teeth, her face pressed into his chest.

  “We’ll help each other.”

  Eventually they get back up, steadying each other, and walk again on stiff legs in silence as they make their way east. Twenty minutes later, they emerge on the other side of the island. The sun is high in the sky now; the air is getting warmer. Penelope stops short when she sees a tennis ball lying in the high grass of a meadow. Its greenish-yellow color is completely foreign to her. She glances up and sees the tiny red house. It’s almost completely hidden behind a tight hedge of lilac bushes. The curtains in all its windows are closed and there’s a hammock without pillows in the arbor; the lawn is overgrown and a broken branch from the old apple tree lies across the path of gray paving stones.

  “Nobody’s home,” Penelope whispers.

  They sneak closer, prepared to hear a dog bark or someone yell. They spy through the gaps between the curtains and continue around to the front and try the door. It’s locked.

  “I’ll break a window,” Björn says. “We have to rest.”

  Next to the wall, there’s a clay pot holding a tiny bush with narrow pale green leaves. Penelope smells the sweet scent of lavender. She bends down to pick up one of the stones from the pot. This stone is plastic and underneath it, there’s a little lid. She opens it and takes out the key before she puts the fake stone back.

  Inside, the hall floor is made of pine. Penelope feels her legs shake. They’re about to give way. The wallpaper is a plush medallion pattern. Penelope is so tired and hungry that the house appears unreal—a gingerbread house from a fairy tale. Covering the walls are framed photos. Björn and Penelope recognize many faces from popular Swedish television programs: Siewert Öholm, Bengt Bedrup, Kjell Lönnå, Arne
Hegerfors, Magnus Härenstam, Malena Ivarsson, Jacob Dahlin.

  They walk through the house, past the living room and into the kitchen. They cast a look around with worried eyes.

  “We can’t stay here,” Penelope whispers.

  Björn goes to the refrigerator and opens the door. The shelves are filled with fresh food. The house is not abandoned after all. Björn grabs some cheese, a log of salami, a quart of milk. Penelope finds a baguette and a box of breakfast cereal in the pantry. They rip the bread apart and pass the cheese back and forth between them as they eagerly bite off chunks. Björn gulps milk straight from the carton. It runs from the corners of his mouth down his throat. Penelope gnaws the salami and follows that with handfuls of breakfast cereal. Taking the milk carton from Björn, she swigs so much she chokes, then drinks some more. They grin nervously at each other, moving away from the window as they devour the food before finally slowing down.

  “Let’s find some warm clothes before we have to leave again,” Penelope says.

  As they search the house, they feel the warmth of the food expanding inside. Their blood seems to flow more freely, even as their stomachs ache.

  There’s a wall-size wardrobe with mirrored doors in the master bedroom. Penelope rushes forward and pushes half of the door to one side.

  “What’s this?”

  There are gold jackets, black glittering cummerbunds, a golden tuxedo, and a medium-length fluffy fur coat. Penelope’s eyebrows lift as she rummages through banana hammocks of all kinds: see-through, tiger-striped, camouflage, and stretch-fabric G-strings.

  She slides open the other wardrobe door and finds simpler clothes: sweaters, jackets, pants. She searches quickly and pulls out some items. Unsteadily, she takes off her soaked clothes.

  She catches sight of her naked self in the mirror. She’s black and blue all over and her hair dangles in black strings. Her face is marked with scratches and bruises across her cheekbones. Blood still seeps from one of the gashes on her thigh and her hip is scraped from the fall down the cliff.