The Joona Linna Thrillers 3-Book Bundle

  Penelope’s wounds have been cleaned. Her injured left foot has been stitched and bandaged and the gash on her back has been washed clean and taped shut, while the deep wound on her hip got the eight stitches it needed.

  “I now want to give you a bit of morphine for the pain.”

  “Mamma,” Penelope says. “I want to talk to Mamma.”

  “I understand,” the doctor replies.

  Warm tears run along Penelope’s cheeks and into her hair and ears. She hears the doctor ask the nurse to prepare an injection of 0.5 milliliters of morphine. The friendly Dr. Richards tells Penelope they will let her rest now, but if she needs anything, she can push the glowing red button.

  “There’s always going to be someone with you, if you want something or just for a bit of company,” she says.

  Now Penelope Fernandez can feel a sense of peace in the room. She closes her eyes as the morphine’s warmth spreads through her body and pulls her down into sleep.

  There’s a slight crunch when a woman wearing a black niqab crushes two small figures of sun-dried clay under her sandaled foot. A girl and her little brother turn to fragments and dust. The veiled woman is walking along carrying a heavy load of grain and doesn’t even notice what she’s doing. Two boys whistle and point and cry out that the slave children are dead and soon only infants will be left. All the Fur will die.

  Penelope forces the memory of Kubbum away, but before she can fall into sleep again, for an instant she feels the weight of the tons of stone, earth, clay, and cement above her. It feels as if she just keeps falling and falling and falling, falling into the center of the earth.

  Penelope Fernandez wakes up abruptly. She can’t open her eyes. The morphine has made her body too heavy. But she knows she’s in a hospital bed in a protected bunker deep beneath the police station. She doesn’t need to flee any longer. Her relief is followed by a massive wave of pain and sorrow. She doesn’t know how long she’s slept, or if she should just let herself drift off again. She opens her eyes anyway.

  She blinks, but sees nothing. Not even the alarm button next to the bed is lit. There must have been a power outage. She’s about to scream, but forces herself to be quiet when the door to the hallway clicks open. She stares into the darkness and hears her own heart pounding. Her body tenses and her muscles are ready to leap. Someone touches her hair. Almost unnoticeable. She lies completely still and feels someone do it again, stealthily, fingers twisting slowly into her locks. She is about to say a prayer when the person near her jerks her out of her bed by the hair. She screams as he throws her into the wall so that the framed pictures break and the IV stand falls over. She falls onto the floor surrounded by shards of glass. He keeps hold of her hair and pulls her back up, flips her over, and bangs her face against the bed’s locked wheels. Then he pulls out a knife with a black blade.

  Penelope wakes up. She’s fallen out of bed. A nurse is rushing to her. All the lights are on and Penelope realizes that she’s had a nightmare. She is helped back into bed, the nurse speaking calmly. Then rails are pulled up around the bed to keep her from falling out again.

  The sweat on her body cools off after a while. She doesn’t want to move. She is lying on her back with the alarm button clutched in her hand and she stares at the ceiling. There’s a knock at the door. A young woman comes in. She has a colorful band braided into her long hair, and she looks at Penelope with a gentle seriousness. Behind her is a tall man with spiked blond hair and a friendly, symmetrical face.

  “My name is Saga Bauer,” the woman says. “I’m from the Security Service. This is my colleague, Joona Linna, from CID.”

  Penelope looks at them without expression and then looks down at her bandaged arms, all her scabs and bruises and the catheter in her arm.

  “We’re so sorry for all you’ve been through the past few days,” the woman says. “And we can understand you might want to simply be left alone now. But we can’t do that just yet. We need some information from you.”

  Saga Bauer pulls the chair from the tiny desk and then sits down beside the bed.

  “He’s still after me, isn’t he?” Penelope asks.

  “You’re safe here,” Saga answers.

  “Tell me he’s dead.”

  “Penelope, we must—”

  “You couldn’t stop him,” she says weakly.

  “We’ll catch him. I promise,” Saga says. “But you have to help us.”

  Penelope shuts her eyes.

  “This must be so hard, but we do need a few answers,” Saga continues softly. “Do you have any idea why this might be happening?”

  “Ask Björn,” she mumbles. “Maybe he knows.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said you have to ask Björn,” Penelope whispers. She slowly opens her eyes. “Ask him. Maybe he knows.”

  Spiders and insects must have gotten on her body from the woods. They’re running over her body. She tries to scratch her forehead, but Saga calmly stops her hands.

  “He was hunting you,” Saga says. “I can’t even imagine how terrible it must have been. But did you recognize the person after you? Have you ever met him before?”

  Penelope shakes her head so slightly it’s hardly noticeable.

  “We didn’t think so either,” Saga says. “But perhaps you can give us a good description of him, or something recognizable such as a tattoo or a special mark?”

  “No,” Penelope whispers.

  “Then could you help our artist draw a picture of him? We don’t need too much to begin a search through Interpol.”

  The man from CID comes closer, and his unusual gray eyes look like stones polished in a stream.

  “I thought I just saw you shake your head,” he says. His voice is also calm. “When Saga asked if you recognized him, you shook your head just a little, right?”

  Penelope nods.

  “Then perhaps you did see him,” Joona says in a friendly way. “Perhaps you’re not sure if you’d seen him before or not.”

  Penelope stares straight ahead and remembers how the killer moved so leisurely, as if he had all the time in the world, and still how everything happened so horribly fast. In her mind, she sees how he must have aimed up as she hung from the helicopter’s lifeline. She sees him raise his weapon and fire. No hurry, no nervousness. Again she sees his face illuminated by the flash of lightning. How they looked right at each other.

  “We understand that you must be frightened,” Joona says. “But we—”

  He stops speaking as a nurse comes into the room and tells Penelope that they’re still trying to reach her mother.

  “She’s not home and she’s not answering her cell phone.”

  Penelope moans and looks away, hiding her face in her pillow. The nurse places a comforting hand on her shoulder.

  “I don’t want to hear!” Penelope sobs. “I don’t want to!”

  Another nurse hurries in and says she will add just a bit more tranquilizer to Penelope’s IV.

  “Please, I must ask you to leave,” the nurse says hastily to Saga and Joona.

  “We’ll be back soon,” Joona says. “I know where your mother might be. I’ll get her for you.”

  Penelope stops crying, but her breaths still come quickly. She hears the rustling noise as the nurse prepares the infusion and she thinks that this entire room reminds her of a jail cell. Her mother wouldn’t want to come here. She bites her lip and tries to keep her tears back for a little while longer.

  There are days when Penelope thinks she remembers her first years. The smell of steaming unwashed bodies. The cell where she was born. The wash of a flashlight beam across the faces of the prisoners. How she felt as her mother lifted her up over others to someone else before her mother disappeared with the guards. How a tune is hummed into her ear.

  66

  without penelope

  Claudia Fernandez gets off the bus at Dalarö Beach Hotel. As she walks to the harbor, she can hear the sounds of helicopters and sirens fading into the d
istance. The search can’t be over. They have to keep looking. A few police boats are moving out on the water. She looks around. There’s no ferry at the dock and no cars waiting at the harbor.

  “Penelope!” she screams right into the air. “Penelope!”

  She realizes she must look insane, but without Penelope, there’s nothing left on this earth for her.

  She begins to walk along the water. The grass is dry and brown, with pieces of garbage everywhere. Seagulls screech in the distance. She begins to run, but soon can’t keep it up and she starts to walk again. Empty cottages stand on the edge of a cliff. She stops next to a sign by a dock where the word PRIVATE is written in white letters. She turns onto the cement dock and looks toward the large cliffs. There’s no one here, she thinks. She turns back toward the harbor. A man is walking along the gravel road and he waves to her. It’s a dark figure with his coat flapping in the breeze. She blinks in the sunlight. The man shouts something. Claudia looks at him in confusion. He begins to walk more quickly, nears her, and only then does she recognize his friendly face.

  “Claudia Fernandez!” he calls out.

  “That’s me,” she replies, and waits for him to catch up to her.

  “I’m John Bengtsson,” he says as he reaches her. “Joona Linna sent me to find you. He told me that you’d probably come here.”

  “Why do you need me?” she says in a weak voice.

  “Your daughter is alive.”

  Claudia looks into the man’s face. He repeats those words.

  “Penelope is alive,” he’s saying, and he gives her a big smile.

  67

  follow the money

  Emotions are running high at the police station until the pitch is almost hate-filled. People compare the recent events to the police murders in Malexander in 1999 and the bestiality of the triple murders in Tumba two years before. The newspapers shout about the drama in the archipelago seas. They name the suspect “The Police Butcher,” and journalists pounce on any lead, any possible source inside the station.

  Joona Linna and Saga Bauer are going to brief a meeting of the department heads, Eliasson, Zandén, Näslund, and Rubin, as well as Nathan Pollock and Tommy Kofoed from the National Homicide Squad. They’re on their way through the hallway and discussing what help Penelope Fernandez might be able to give.

  “I think she’ll be able to talk soon,” Joona says.

  “I’m not so sure. She could go the other way and just shut down completely,” Saga says.

  Anja Larsson has taken a step out of her office and stands in the hallway watching Joona and Saga mournfully. When Joona sees her, he gives her a big smile and waves, but he’s gone past too quickly to see the heart she’s formed with her thumbs and index fingers.

  They shut the conference-room door behind them and greet everyone around the table.

  “I want to start today by dismissing all suspicions of left-wing extremists being behind this,” Saga begins.

  Verner Zandén whispers something to Nathan Pollock.

  “Am I right?” Saga says, raising her voice.

  Verner looks up and nods.

  “That’s right,” he says, clearing his throat.

  “Why don’t you start at the beginning?” Carlos asks Saga.

  “Well … we are focused on an individual, Penelope Fernandez, who is a peace activist and the chairwoman for the Swedish Peace and Reconciliation Society. She has been in a long personal relationship with Björn Almskog, a bartender at the Debaser club on Medborgarplatsen. She lives at Sankt Paulsgatan 3 and he lives at Pontonjärgatan 47. Penelope Fernandez had a photograph taped to the glass door between her living room and the hallway.”

  Saga projects an image from her computer onto the screen that covers one wall of the room.

  “This photograph was taken in Frankfurt in the spring of 2008,” she says.

  “We recognize Palmcrona,” Carlos says.

  “That’s right,” Saga says, and then points out the other people in the theater box. “This is Pontus Salman, the director of the weapons manufacturer Silencia Defense. This person is none other than Raphael Guidi. He’s a well-known weapons dealer for many years, mainly in Africa and the Middle East. They call him the Archangel.”

  “And the lady in the group?” asks Benny Rubin.

  “That’s Agathe al-Haji,” Saga says without smiling. “She’s the military adviser to the government in Sudan and has close ties with President Omar al-Bashir.”

  Benny slaps the table and shows his teeth. Pollock gives him an irritated look.

  “Is this usual?” asks Carlos. “Do people meet like this?”

  “Yes, I believe so,” Saga replies. “This meeting was supposedly about a shipment of ammunition going to the Sudanese army. It would have been completed, without a doubt, if the International Criminal Court in The Hague hadn’t issued an arrest warrant for President al-Bashir.”

  “That was in 2009, wasn’t it?” asks Pollock.

  “It wasn’t written up in the Swedish press,” Saga says. “But the indictment pointed a finger at the president’s direct participation in torture, rape, and genocide in Darfur.”

  “So the deal was scotched,” Carlos says.

  “Yes,” says Saga.

  “And what about that photograph? What’s going on there? Nothing?” Verner asks.

  “Penelope Fernandez must not have thought it was dangerous since she displayed it openly on her door,” Saga says.

  “And yet it must be important—since she had it there at all,” Carlos says.

  “We have no idea why. Perhaps it served as a reminder of how the world works,” Saga speculates. “A few poor people fight for peace at the bottom of the barrel, while at the top the mighty clink their glasses and drink champagne over an arms deal.”

  “We hope to question Penelope Fernandez soon, but we’re fairly sure Björn Almskog tried to deal behind her back,” Joona continues. “Perhaps he knew nothing more about the photo than Penelope, or maybe he was just grasping at a chance to make money. But on the second of June, Björn uses an anonymous e-mail address in an Internet café to write a blackmail letter to Carl Palmcrona. The e-mail begins a very short correspondence: Björn writes he knows the photograph can be troublesome for Palmcrona and he’s ready to sell it to him for a million crowns.”

  “Classic blackmail,” Pollock mutters.

  “Björn uses the word ‘awkward’ concerning this photograph,” Saga continues. “This makes us believe that he does not understand how serious Palmcrona will find it to be.”

  “Björn believes he’s in control,” Joona says. “So he’s amazed when Palmcrona turns around and warns him. Palmcrona explains darkly that Björn does not know what he’s gotten himself into and then pleads with him to mail him the photograph before it’s too late.”

  Joona drinks some water.

  “What is the tone of the letter?” Nathan Pollock asks. “You say it’s ‘dark,’ but is it also aggressive?”

  Joona shakes his head as he passes out copies of the correspondence.

  “No. Not aggressive. Rather, tinged with fear—for himself.”

  Tommy Kofoed reads the e-mails, nods, rubs his pockmarked cheeks, and writes something down.

  “What happens next?”

  “Before the housekeeper leaves that Wednesday, she helps Palmcrona fasten a noose to the ceiling fixture.”

  Petter has to laugh. “What? Why would she do that?”

  “Because he’d had back surgery and couldn’t reach up to do it himself,” Saga replies.

  “Well, then,” Carlos says, and can’t help a small smile.

  “The next day at lunch … after the mail had been delivered, we believe,” Joona continues, “Palmcrona calls a number in Bordeaux and—”

  “We can’t trace the number beyond Bordeaux,” Saga adds.

  “The number could have gone to an exchange and been sent on to another country, or even back to Sweden,” Joona explains. “Anyway, wherever it went in the end,
the conversation was only forty-three seconds long. Perhaps he just left a voice message. We presume he told about the blackmail letter and expected help.

  “Shortly thereafter, just a few minutes later, Palmcrona’s housekeeper uses Palmcrona’s name to call for a taxi from Taxi Stockholm. It is to arrive at two o’clock for a trip to Arlanda Airport. Exactly one hour and fifteen minutes after the Bordeaux conversation, the telephone rings. Palmcrona has already put on his overcoat and his good shoes, but still answers the phone. The phone call comes from Bordeaux and from the same number. This conversation lasts two minutes. Palmcrona sends one last e-mail to his blackmailer warning him it is now too late. They both will die. He gives his housekeeper permission to leave for the day, pays the waiting taxi for his trouble, goes into his apartment, and doesn’t even bother to take off his coat. He walks into the small salon, puts his briefcase on edge, climbs up, and hangs himself.”

  Everyone at the table is quiet.

  “But the story doesn’t end there,” Joona says slowly. “Palmcrona’s call has set things in motion. An international hit man is engaged. A professional killer is sent here to erase everything and get the photograph.”

  “How often … I mean in Sweden … do we have to deal with professional killers?” Carlos says with skepticism. “There would have to be a great deal of money involved here.”

  Joona looks at him without expression. “Correct.”

  “Palmcrona must have been frightened and just rattled off the contents of the blackmail letter including the bank account number Björn had given him,” Saga says.

  “With a bank account number, it’s not difficult to find anyone,” Verner mutters.

  “At about the same time that Palmcrona is kicking away his briefcase, Björn Almskog is at the Dreambow Internet Café,” Joona says. “He goes into his anonymous account and sees that he’s gotten two messages from Palmcrona.”

  “Of course he’s hoping that Palmcrona will come across with a million crowns,” Saga says.

  “Instead, he is greeted by Palmcrona’s warning and then the short message that they’re both going to die,” adds Joona.