The Nightmare

  She pulls on a pair of pin-striped trousers and a T-shirt with the saying “Eat more oatmeal!” and a hoodie over that. The hoodie is so long, it hangs to her knees. She warms up enough so that her entire body wants to relax. She suddenly bursts into tears, but stops them, smudging away the tears from her cheeks. She goes into the hall to look for shoes. There she finds a pair of blue sailor boots that fit. Back in the bedroom, Björn, even though he is wet and muddy, has pulled on a pair of lilac velour pants. His feet look horrible. They are covered with dirt and wounds; he leaves bloodstains wherever he walks. He pulls on a blue T-shirt and a narrow-cut blue leather jacket with wide lapels. Penelope begins to cry again, her tears now streaming out in waves. She can no longer hold them back. It’s as if all the anguish and terror are now making their way out.

  “What’s going on?” she sobs.

  “I have no idea,” Björn whispers.

  “We haven’t even seen his face. What does he want from us? What the hell does he want? Why is he after us? Why does he want to hurt us?”

  She jerks the sleeve of her sweater across her face.

  “I think,” she says, “I mean … what if … what if Viola has done something bad, something stupid? You know her boyfriend, Sergei, the guy she broke up with, he must be connected to something criminal … maybe … all I know is that he worked as a bouncer.”

  “Penny—”

  “I’m just saying, Viola, she’s so … maybe she’s done something wrong.”

  “No, it’s not her,” Björn whispers.

  “What do you mean? We don’t know anything! You don’t have to comfort me.”

  “There’s something I have to—”

  “He … the man who was after us … maybe he just had something to tell us. No, I know, that’s ridiculous … I mean, I don’t know what I mean.”

  “Penny,” Björn says seriously. “Everything that’s happened is my fault.”

  He looks at her. His eyes are bloodshot, and his cheeks burn red against his pale skin.

  “What are you saying now?” she asks in a deadly quiet voice.

  He swallows awkwardly before he explains.

  “I’ve done something incredibly stupid, Penny.”

  “What? What have you done?”

  “That photograph,” he answers. “It’s all because of that photograph.”

  “Which photograph? The one of Palmcrona and Guidi?”

  “That’s the one. I got in touch with Palmcrona,” Björn answers honestly. “I told him I wanted money for the picture, but—”

  “You didn’t,” she whispers.

  Penelope stares at him and instinctively steps backward, managing to knock over the bedside table with its water glass and clock radio.

  “Penny—”

  “No! No! No! Just shut the hell up!” she’s screaming. “I don’t get it! What the fuck are you trying to tell me? You can’t mean it … you couldn’t have … have you lost your mind? You tried to blackmail Palmcrona? Where was your mind?”

  “Listen to me! I regretted it at once. I know it was wrong! He got the picture. I mailed him the picture.”

  The room falls silent. Penelope tries to comprehend what Björn has told her. Confused thoughts circle through her mind, and she fights to understand Björn’s confession.

  “That picture belonged to me,” she says slowly. She’s still trying to control her thoughts. “It might be extremely important. Maybe an incredibly important photograph. I was given it in confidence. Someone may be able to explain—”

  “I needed money. I didn’t want to have to sell my boat,” Björn whispers. He looks like he’s about to cry.

  “I still don’t get it—you mailed the picture to Palmcrona?”

  “But I had to, Penny. I know it was yours and that it was wrong to send it, but I had to give him the picture.”

  “But I’ve got to get it back!” she says desperately. “Don’t you understand? What if the person who sent it to me wants it back? This is big. It’s dealing with Swedish arms exports. This isn’t about your money or lack of it … this has nothing to do with you or me … this is way beyond just us, Björn.”

  Penelope looks at him in despair. Her voice rises until she’s practically shrieking.

  “This is about the lives of human beings! You betrayed me.” With those words her voice falls heavily. “I am so angry with you, I could hit you. This is something I just can’t deal with now.”

  “But, Penny, I didn’t know,” he whines. “How was I supposed to know? You never tell me anything. All you said was this picture would embarrass Palmcrona. You never said—”

  She interrupts him. “What does that matter?”

  “I only thought—”

  “Shut the fuck up!” she screams. “I don’t want to listen to your idiotic excuses! You tried to blackmail someone—you’re a greedy little bastard! I don’t know you at all. And you sure as hell don’t know me!”

  She falls silent and they stand facing each other. A seagull screams as it flies over the water and then there are other seagulls adding their screams as complaining echoes.

  “We have to get out of here soon,” Björn says without energy.

  Penelope nods and then they hear the click as the outer door opens. Instinctively they move together deeper into the bedroom. They hear the heavy footsteps of a man. Björn tries to open the French doors, but they’re locked. Penelope tries unlatching the windows, but she already knows it’s way too late.

  51

  the winner

  “What the hell are you doing here?” the man in the doorway demands in a hoarse voice.

  Penelope understands immediately that he’s the owner of the house—not their pursuer. He’s short, broad, slightly chubby. His face seems familiar, as if he’s someone she once knew.

  “Are you drug addicts?” he asks with interest.

  His face clicks into place. They’ve broken into Ossian Wallenberg’s house. He was a beloved television celebrity, last on the air ten years ago. He hosted many popular variety shows: Golden Friday, Up the Wall, Lion Evening. And he had contests on his shows: games, and prizes, and special guests. Every Golden Friday ended the same way. Ossian would lift up his guest. He’d be smiling and his face would turn red. Penelope remembered that as a child, she’d once seen him pick up Mother Teresa. The delicate old woman had looked completely terrified. Ossian Wallenberg was known for his golden hair, his extravagant clothes—and his studied viciousness.

  “We’ve been in an accident,” Björn says. “We have to notify the police.”

  “I see,” Ossian says indifferently. “I only have a cell phone here.”

  “That’s okay. Please, we need to borrow it. We’re desperate.”

  Ossian takes out his cell phone, looks at it, and then closes it again.

  “What are you doing?” Penelope practically yells.

  “I do whatever I want to do,” Ossian replies.

  “Look, we really need to borrow your phone,” she says.

  “Then you’ll need my PIN number.” Ossian smiles.

  “What game are you playing?”

  Ossian leans on the doorjamb and observes them for a while.

  “Just think, a pair of drug addicts have found their way to little old me.”

  “We’re not—”

  “No one cares,” says Ossian.

  “Let’s go,” Penelope tells Björn.

  But Björn seems incapable of moving. His cheeks and lips are white and he supports himself with one hand on the wall.

  “Sorry that we broke into your house,” he says. “We’ll pay for everything we took. But really, we have to use your phone right now. Like she said, it’s a desperate situation—”

  “And what’s your name?” Ossian interrupts, smiling.

  “Björn.”

  “You’re looking handsome in my jacket, Björn, but why not the tie as well? I’ve got a tie that matches the suit perfectly.”

  Ossian walks to his wardrobe and takes out
a blue leather tie. Playing along, Björn submits to having it tied around his neck.

  “You should call the police!” Penelope says. “Tell them that two drug addicts have broken into your house and you caught them in the act.”

  “That’s no fun,” Ossian replies.

  “So what do you want?” Penelope asks desperately.

  Ossian steps back and studies his intruders.

  “I don’t like her,” he says to Björn. “But you, on the other hand, you have style. My jacket really looks good on you. Let her keep that ugly sweater, right? She looks like Helge the Owl. She doesn’t even look Swedish. She looks like a—”

  “Cut it out,” Björn says.

  Ossian walks close to Björn and shakes his finger in his face.

  “Be good,” he teases.

  “I know who you are,” Penelope says.

  “I’m glad,” Ossian says with a smile.

  Björn looks at her and then back at Ossian. Penelope collapses onto the edge of the bed and tries to breathe calmly.

  “Wait a minute,” Ossian says. “I know you, too … I’ve seen you on TV. I recognize you.”

  “I’ve been on some political debates—”

  “And now you’re dead.” Ossian smiles.

  Her entire body tenses. What strange words. She tries to understand what he’s talking about while she looks for a way to escape. Now Björn slides down along the wall to the floor, completely white and unable to say a word.

  “If you don’t want to help us,” Penelope says, “then we’ll just leave and find someone who will.”

  “Of course I want to help you! Of course!”

  Ossian walks out into the hallway and returns with a grocery bag from which he takes a carton of cigarettes and an evening newspaper. He tosses the paper on the bed and leaves for the kitchen with the cigarettes. On the front page, Penelope sees a picture of herself, a larger picture of Viola, and one of Björn. Over Viola’s picture is the word DEAD and over their pictures is the word MISSING.

  BOAT DRAMA—THREE FEARED DEAD! screams the headline.

  Penelope can see her mother in her mind’s eye: terrified and broken by sorrow—perhaps completely frozen, her arms wrapped around her body, just as she’d done when they had been arrested.

  The floor creaks as Ossian returns.

  “Let’s play a game!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m really in the mood for a game! A competition!”

  “A competition?” Björn whispers uncertainly.

  “You can’t tell me that you don’t know what a competition is?”

  “Of course, but—”

  Penelope studies Ossian and realizes they’re in a precarious position. No one knows that they’re still alive. He could even decide to kill them, since everyone else believes they’re already dead.

  “He’s testing his power over us,” Penelope says.

  “Will you hand over your phone and your PIN number if we play?” asks Björn.

  “Only if you win,” Ossian answers, and smiles at them with glittering eyes.

  “What happens if we lose?” asks Penelope.

  52

  the messenger

  Axel Riessen walks to his kitchen window and looks out over the rosebushes, past the iron fence, down the street, and toward the wide staircase of Engelbrekt Church.

  The instant he’d signed his name to the employment contract, he’d taken over all of the late Carl Palmcrona’s duties and responsibilities.

  It felt very good, it felt right. First thing I do, he told himself, is begin a collaboration with the United Nations as regards the Convention on the Prohibition of Chemical Weapons.

  He smiles to himself and marvels at how life can take strange turns. Then he remembers Beverly. His stomach flutters with worry. One time she’d told him that she was going to the store, but four hours later, she still hadn’t returned. He’d gone out to search for her. He’d finally found her sitting in a wheelbarrow outside of the Observatory Museum. She was confused, smelled like alcohol, and her underwear was missing. Someone had stuck gum in her hair.

  She said she’d run into some boys in the park.

  “They were throwing stones at an injured dove,” Beverly explained. “So I thought that I’d give them my money so they’d stop. But I only had twelve crowns. That wasn’t enough. They wanted me to do something else instead. They told me they would stomp the dove to death if I didn’t.”

  She became quiet and tears came into her eyes.

  “I didn’t want to do it, but I felt so sorry for the dove.”

  Axel takes out his cell phone and calls Beverly’s number.

  As the signal roams, he looks down the road, past the building that once housed the Chinese embassy, and down to the dark house where the Catholic network Opus Dei has its main headquarters.

  His own building is an enormous mansion he and his brother, Robert, share. It is situated on Bragevägen in the middle of Lärkstaden, an exclusive district between Östermalm and Vasastan. All the houses there look alike, as if they were children produced from the same family.

  The Riessen residence has two apartments, one on each side. Each one is three stories tall and is completely separate from the other.

  Their father, Erloff Riessen, has been dead for twenty years. He was the Swedish ambassador to France and then England, while his brother, Torleif Riessen, had been a famous pianist who’d performed at Symphony Hall in Boston and the Grosser Musikvereinssaal in Vienna. The noble house of Riessen always ran to two professions, diplomats and classical musicians, and the two were strangely similar: they demanded absolute obedience and submission.

  The father and mother, Erloff and Alice Riessen, decided on a logical agreement: from childhood Axel should devote himself to music while his younger brother, Robert, would be trained in his father’s profession as a diplomat. This arrangement was turned upside down when Axel made the greatest mistake of his life. He was seventeen years old when he was forced to leave the music profession. Instead, he was sent to a military academy while Robert now trained as the family musician. Axel accepted his punishment, even thought it was fair, and since that day, he vowed never to pick up the violin again.

  Axel’s mother never again spoke with him.

  After nine rings, Beverly answers the phone, coughing.

  “Hello?”

  “Where are you?” Axel demands.

  “I’m—”

  She must have turned her face from the receiver because he couldn’t understand her next words.

  “I can’t hear you,” he says, even more frightened. His voice is sharp and forced.

  “Are you angry with me?”

  “Just tell me where you are,” he pleads.

  “You’re going on and on!” she says and laughs. “I’m here in my apartment, of course. Are you all right?”

  “I was just worried.”

  “Silly, I was just about to watch a show on Princess Victoria.” She hangs up and he feels that ongoing worry. There is a vague tone to her voice.

  He looks at the phone and wonders if he should dial her again. He jumps when the phone starts to ring.

  “Riessen.”

  “Jörgen Grünlicht here.”

  “Hello,” Axel says with a little surprise in his voice.

  “How was your meeting with the team?”

  “It was fairly fruitful,” Axel replies.

  “You made Kenya the priority, I hope.”

  “As well as the final user certificate from the Netherlands,” Axel says. “There was a lot on the table and I’m waiting to decide where I stand. I need to research a little more—”

  “But Kenya,” Grünlicht says. “Have you signed the export form yet? Pontus Salman is on my back wondering why it’s still held up. You understand that this is a damned big piece of business already way behind schedule. ISP had given them a positive preliminary decision and they’ve gone ahead with production, a damned large shipment already sent fro
m Trollhättan to the docks in Gothenburg. The owner is sending a container ship from Panama tomorrow. They’ll unload their cargo during the day and then the next day they can load the ammunition.”

  “Jörgen, I understand all this. I’ve gone over the paperwork and sure … I’ll sign it, but I’ve just started this job and I need to be thorough.”

  “I, myself, went through the whole business,” Jörgen says in a brusque manner. “There’s nothing unclear about it.”

  “No, but—”

  “Where are you now?”

  “I’m at home,” Axel says, even more mystified.

  “I’ll send the paperwork by messenger,” Jörgen says shortly. “The messenger will wait while you sign it. Then we won’t lose any more time.”

  “That’s not really necessary. I’ll look at it tomorrow,” Axel protests.

  Twenty minutes later, Axel goes to the door at the persistent ring of the messenger sent by Jörgen Grünlicht. He’s greatly troubled by Grünlicht’s obstinacy. On the other hand, there doesn’t seem to be any reason to delay this piece of business.

  53

  the signature

  Axel opens the door and greets the bike messenger. The warm evening air sweeps into the house along with the pounding music from the end-of-the-year party at the School of Architecture.

  Axel takes the folder and yet feels awkward about signing the contract in front of the messenger. He feels he would look like he’s caving in under a bit of pressure.

  “Just a minute,” he says and gestures for the messenger to wait in the hallway.

  Axel walks through his side of the house, through the library, and into the kitchen, past its granite counters, the glossy black cabinets, and up to the double-door refrigerator with its ice machine. He takes out a mini-bottle of mineral water and drinks straight from it as he loosens his tie. He sits on a high stool next to the bar counter and opens the folder.

  Everything is neat, tidy, and appears to be in order. Every appendix is in its proper place: the opinion of the Export Control Committee, the classification, the preliminary decision, the copies for the Foreign Office, and the tender notice. He scans the document concerning export permission and flips to the line where the general director for the National Inspectorate of Strategic Products is supposed to sign his name.