The Sandman Page 12

  “But if Felicia is alive, then she’s probably still in the capsule,” Verner says in his deep voice.

  “Yes,” Joona agrees.

  “How the hell are we going to find her? It’s impossible,” Carlos says. “No one knows where the capsule is.”

  “No one apart from Jurek Walter,” Joona says.

  “Who can’t be questioned,” Verner says.

  “No,” Joona replies.

  “Because he’s utterly psychotic, and—”

  “No, he was never that,” Joona interrupts.

  “All I know is what it says in the forensic medical report,” Verner says. “They wrote that he was schizophrenic, psychotic, prone to chaotic thinking, and extremely violent.”

  “Only because that’s what Jurek wanted it to say,” Joona replies.

  “So you think he’s healthy? Is that what you mean, that there’s nothing wrong with him?” Verner asks. “What the hell is this? Why wasn’t he interrogated, then?”

  “There are strict restrictions. He must be kept in total isolation,” Carlos says. “In the verdict of the Supreme Court—”

  “It must be possible to get around the terms of the sentence.” Verner sighs, stretching out his long legs.

  “Maybe,” Carlos says.

  “And I’ve got some very skilled people who’ve interrogated people suspected of terrorist—”

  “Joona’s the best,” Carlos interrupts.

  “No, I’m not,” Joona responds.

  “It was you who tracked down and apprehended Jurek, and you’re about the only person he spoke to before his trial.”

  Joona shakes his head and looks out at the deserted garage through the tinted window.

  “I’ve tried,” he says slowly. “But it’s impossible to fool Jurek. He isn’t like other people. He isn’t unhappy. He doesn’t need sympathy. He won’t say anything.”

  “Do you want to try?” Verner asks.

  “I can’t,” says Joona.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m frightened,” he replies simply.

  Carlos looks at him.

  “I know you’re only joking,” he says nervously.

  Joona turns to face him. His eyes are hard, and as gray as wet slate.

  “Surely we have no reason to be scared of an old man who’s already locked up,” Verner says, scratching his head. “He should be scared of us. For God’s sake, we could rush in, pin him down on the floor, and scare the shit out of him. I mean, be seriously fucking tough.”

  “It won’t work,” Joona says.

  “There are methods that always work,” Verner goes on. “I have a secret group who were involved in Guantánamo.”

  “Obviously, this meeting has never taken place,” Carlos says in a hurry.

  “I very rarely have meetings that have,” Verner says, then leans forward. “My group knows all about waterboarding and electric shocks.”

  Joona shakes his head. “Jurek isn’t scared of pain.”

  “So we just give up?”

  “No,” Joona says. His seat creaks as he leans back.

  “What do you think we should do?” Verner asks.

  “If we go in and talk to Jurek, the only thing we can be sure of is that he’ll be lying. He’ll steer the conversation, and once he finds out what we want with him, he’ll get us to start bargaining, and we’ll end up giving him something we’ll only regret.”

  Carlos looks down and scratches his knee irritably.

  “What does that leave us with?” Verner asks.

  “I don’t know if it’s even possible,” Joona says, “but if you could place an agent as a patient in the same secure psychiatric unit as—”

  “I don’t want to hear any more,” Carlos interrupts.

  “To get Jurek’s attention in the first place, it would have to be someone completely convincing, an agent with true inner rage,” Joona goes on.

  “Christ,” Verner mutters.

  “A patient,” Carlos whispers.

  “Someone who might be useful to him. Someone he could exploit,” Joona continues.

  “What are you saying?”

  “We need to find an agent who’s so exceptional that Jurek Walter becomes curious.”

  “Do you have anyone in mind?” Carlos asks.

  “There is only one,” Joona says.

  54

  The punching bag lets out a sigh, and the chain rattles. Saga Bauer moves nimbly to one side, follows the movement of the bag with her body, and strikes again. Two blows, causing a sound that rumbles off the walls of the empty boxing gym.

  She’s practicing a combination of two quick left jabs—one high, one low—followed by a hard right hook.

  The black punching bag sways, and the hook creaks. Its shadow crosses Saga’s face, and she punches again. Three rapid blows. She rolls her shoulders, moves backward, glides around the punching bag, and strikes once more.

  Her long blond hair flies out with the rapid movement of her hips, flicking across her face.

  Saga loses track of time when she’s training, and all thoughts vanish from her head. She’s been on her own in the gym for the past two hours. The last of the others left while she was doing her skipping. The lamps above the boxing ring are switched off, but the bright glow from the vending machine is shining through the doorway. There’s snow swirling outside the windows, around a sign for a dry cleaner’s and along the pavement.

  From the corner of her eye, Saga sees a car stop in the street outside the boxing club, but she continues with the same combination of blows, trying to increase their power. Drops of sweat hit the floor next to a smaller punching bag that has been removed from its cable.

  Stefan walks in. He stamps the snow from his feet, then stands quietly for a moment. His coat is undone, showing the pale suit and white shirt underneath.

  She goes on punching as she sees him take off his shoes and come closer.

  The only sounds are the thump of the bag and the rattle of the chain.

  Saga wants to keep training. She’s not ready to break her concentration yet. She lowers her brow and attacks the bag with a rapid series of punches, even though Stefan is standing right behind it.

  “Harder,” he says, holding the bag in place.

  She throws a straight right, so hard that he has to take a step back. She can’t help laughing, but before he’s managed to regain his balance, she punches again.

  “Give me some resistance,” she says, with a hint of impatience in her voice.

  “Come on, Saga. Let’s go.”

  She fires off another salvo of punches, allowing herself to succumb to a deep well of rage. This rage makes her feel weak, but it’s also what makes her keep fighting, long after others have given up.

  The heavy blows rattle the chain of the punching bag. She slows herself down, even though she could go on for ages.

  Panting, she takes a couple of easy steps backward. The bag continues to swing. A light shower of concrete dust falls from the catch in the ceiling.

  “Okay, I’m happy now.” She smiles at him, pulling off her boxing gloves with her teeth.

  He follows her into the women’s changing room and helps her remove the strapping from her hands.

  “You hurt yourself,” he murmurs.

  “It’s nothing,” she says, looking at her hand.

  Her gym clothes are wet with sweat. Her nipples are showing through her damp bra, and her muscles are swollen and pumped with blood.

  Saga Bauer is an inspector with the Security Police, and she’s worked with Joona Linna on two big cases. She’s not just an elite-level boxer, but a very good sniper, and has been specially trained in advanced interrogation techniques.

  She’s twenty-seven years old, her eyes are blue as a summer sky, she has colorful ribbons braided into her long blond hair, and she is improbably beautiful. Most people who see her are filled with a strange, helpless sense of longing.

  The hot shower mists up the mirrors. Saga stands solidly with her le
gs apart and her arms hanging by her sides as the water washes over her. A large bruise is forming on one thigh, and the knuckles of her right hand are bleeding.

  She looks up, wipes the water from her face, and sees Stefan watching her intensely.

  “What are you thinking?” Saga asks.

  “That it was raining the first time we had sex,” he says quietly.

  She remembers that afternoon well. They had been to a matinee at the movies, and when they emerged onto the street it was pouring with rain. Though they ran to his studio, they got drenched anyway. Stefan has talked about how unembarrassed she was as she undressed and hung her clothes over the radiator, then stood there picking out notes on his piano. He said that he knew he shouldn’t stare, but that she lit up the room like molten glass, like a princess from a fairy tale.

  “Get in the shower,” Saga says.

  “We don’t have time. We’re already late for our reservation.”

  She looks at him with a little wrinkle between her eyebrows.

  “Is that what matters to you?” she asks.

  He smiles uncertainly. “What do you mean?”

  “I want to know what matters to you.”

  Stefan holds out a towel and says, “Now’s not the time for this.”

  55

  It’s snowing as they get out of the taxi at the jazz club Fasching. Saga turns her face toward the sky and feels the snow fall on her warm skin.

  The cramped nightclub is already packed. Candles flicker in frosted lanterns, and snow slides down the windows facing Kungs Street.

  Stefan hangs his coat on the back of a chair and goes over to the bar to order.

  Saga’s hair is still wet, and she shivers as she takes off her green parka, its back dark with dampness.

  Stefan puts two vodka martinis and a bowl of pistachios on the table. They sit across from each other and drink a silent toast. Saga is about to say how hungry she is when a thin man in glasses comes over.

  “Jacky,” Stefan says, surprised.

  “I thought I could smell cat piss.” Jacky grins.

  “This is my girl,” Stefan says.

  Jacky glances at Saga and nods, then whispers something to Stefan, who laughs.

  “No, seriously, you’ve got to play with us,” Jacky says. “I’m sure your little princess can take care of herself for a few minutes.”

  He points to the corner, where an almost black double bass and a half-acoustic Gibson guitar stand ready.

  Saga can’t quite hear what they’re saying over the chatter of the crowd. They’re talking about some legendary gig, a contract that’s the best they’ve had so far, and a cleverly put-together quartet. She lets her eyes roam around the bar as she waits. Stefan says something to her as Jacky pulls him to his feet.

  “Are you going to play?” Saga asks.

  “Just one song,” Stefan calls with a smile.

  She waves him off. The noise in the bar subsides as Jacky takes the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, Stefan Johansson,” he introduces.

  Stefan sits down at the piano. “April in Paris,” he says, and starts to play.

  56

  Saga watches Stefan Half close his eyes. Her skin breaks out in goose bumps as the music takes over and seems to shrink the room. The lighting is soft and shimmering.

  Jacky starts to play gently ornate harmonies, and then the bass joins in.

  Saga knows that Stefan loves this. But she can’t let go of the fact that they’d promised just to sit and talk, for once. She’d been looking forward to this all week.

  Slowly she eats the pistachios, gathering a heap of empty shells and waiting. She feels a peculiar angst because of how he walked away from her. She knows that she’s being irrational, and keeps telling herself not to be childish. When her drink is finished, she moves on to Stefan’s. It’s no longer cold, but she drinks it anyway.

  She looks over at the door just as a red-cheeked man takes a picture of her with his phone. She’s tired, and is considering going home to sleep, but she’d really like to talk to Stefan first.

  Saga has lost track of how many numbers they’ve played. John Scofield, Mike Stern, Charles Mingus, Dave Holland, Lars Gullin, and a long version of a song she doesn’t know the name of, from that record with Bill Evans and Monica Zetterlund.

  Saga looks at the heap of pale nutshells, the toothpicks in the martini glasses, and the empty chair facing her. She goes over to the bar and gets a bottle of Grolsch, and when she’s done with it she heads to the bathroom.

  Some women are adjusting their makeup in front of the mirror. The stalls are all occupied, and she has to wait in line. When one of the stalls is finally free, she goes in, locks the door, sits down, and just stares at the white door.

  An old memory comes to her: Her mother lying in bed, her face marked by sickness. Saga was only seven years old and was trying to comfort her, telling her everything would soon be all right, but her mother didn’t want to hold her hand.

  “Stop it,” Saga whispers to herself, but the memory won’t let go.

  Her mother got worse, and Saga had to find her medication, help her take her tablets, and hold the glass of water.

  Saga sat on the floor beside her mother’s bed, looking up at her, fetching a blanket when she was cold, trying to call her dad each time her mom asked her to.

  When her mom finally fell asleep, Saga can remember switching off the little lamp, curling up on top of the bed, and wrapping her mother’s arms around her.

  She doesn’t usually think about this—she manages to keep her distance from the memory—but this time it’s just there, and her heart is beating hard in her chest as she leaves the bathroom.

  Their table is still empty; the glasses are still there, and Stefan is still playing. He’s maintaining eye contact with Jacky, and they’re responding playfully to each other’s improvisations.

  She forces her way through to the musicians. Stefan is in the middle of a long, meandering solo when she puts a hand on his shoulder.

  He startles, looks at her, then shakes his head irritably. She grabs his arm.

  “Let’s go,” she says.

  “I’m playing,” Stefan says through gritted teeth.

  “But we agreed—” she begins.

  “For God’s sake,” he whispers sharply.

  Saga backs away and knocks over a glass of beer on top of one of the amplifiers. It falls to the floor and shatters.

  Beer splashes up onto Stefan’s clothes.

  She stands still, but his eyes are focused solely on the keys of the piano.

  She waits a moment, then returns to their table. A few men have sat down in their chairs. Her green parka is lying on the floor. She snatches it up and hurries out into the snow.

  57

  Saga Bauer spends the whole of the following morning in one of the Security Police’s generously proportioned meeting rooms with four other agents, three analysts, and two people from Admin. Most of them have laptops or tablets in front of them, showing a gray screen with a diagram illustrating the extent of nonwireless communication traffic across the country’s borders over the past week.

  Under discussion are the analytical database of the signals-intelligence unit, new search methods, and the seemingly rapid radicalization of thirty or so Islamic extremists.

  “Even if Al-Shabaab have made extensive use of the Al-Qimmah network,” Saga is saying, “I don’t think it will give us much. Obviously, we need to continue what we’re doing, but I still say we should try to infiltrate the group of women on their periphery, as I mentioned before, and—”

  The door opens and the head of the Security Police, Verner Zandén, comes in, raising his hand apologetically.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” he says in his rumbling voice as he catches Saga’s eye. “But I was just thinking of going for a little stroll, and would very much appreciate your company.”

  She nods and logs out but leaves her laptop on the table to exit the meeting room with Verner.


  It’s extremely cold as they step out into the street, and the tiny crystals in the air are lit up by the hazy sunlight. Verner walks with long strides, and Saga hurries along beside him.

  They pass Fleming Street in silence, walk through the gate to the health center, across the circular park surrounding the chapel, and down the steps toward the ice of Barnhusviken.

  The situation is feeling more and more odd, but Saga refrains from asking any questions.

  Verner gestures with his hands and turns left onto a bicycle path. Some small rabbits scamper for cover under the bushes as they approach. The snow-covered park benches are soft shapes in the white landscape. They turn in between two of the tall buildings lining Kungsholms Strand and go up to a door. Verner taps in a code, opens the door, and leads her into the elevator.

  In the scratched mirror, Saga can see snowflakes covering her hair. They’re melting, forming glistening drops of water. When the creaking elevator stops, Verner takes out a key with a plastic card attached and unlocks a door that bears the telltale signs of attempted burglaries. He nods to her to follow him inside.

  They walk into an entirely empty flat. Someone has recently moved out. The walls are full of holes where pictures and shelves have been removed. There are large dust balls on the floor, and a forgotten IKEA Allen wrench.

  The toilet flushes, and Carlos Eliasson, chief of National Crime, comes out. He wipes his hands on his trousers and shakes hands with Saga Bauer.

  “Can I offer you something to drink?” Carlos asks.

  He fills a couple of plastic cups with tap water and holds them out.

  “Perhaps you were expecting lunch?” Carlos says as he sees the mystified look on her face.

  “No, but—”

  “I have some cough drops,” he says, pulling out a little box.

  Saga shakes her head, but Verner takes the box from Carlos, taps out a couple, and pops them into his mouth.

  “Quite a party,” Verner says.

  Carlos clears his throat. “Saga, as you’ve no doubt realized, this is an extremely unofficial meeting.”

  “What happened?” Saga asks.