Assassin's Game

FOURTEEN

That a second shooting had occurred in the space of forty-eight hours, in the same block of picturesque waterfront, generated a storm of critique around Stockholm. The press was swarming both the scene and police headquarters. The mayor was asking questions. The prime minister of Sweden had even called the National Police commissioner to his luxurious carpet for an explanation. All of this rolled downhill, of course, to land at the well-worn Birkenstocks of Arne Sanderson.

He spent an hour at the scene watching his men string yellow tape around the shambles of yet another Strandvägen café. One look at the victims confirmed what Sanderson already suspected — these were the two men being sought in relation to Friday’s shootings, the same pair who had chased Christine Palmer across the waterfront. Initial eyewitness interviews, including Elmander from his hospital bed, made it clear who they should now be looking for — the American stonemason. Two steps forward, one step back, Sanderson mused. Progress in a sense. He gave careful directions to the on-scene forensic team, and was back at the station by one that afternoon. He had not yet reached his desk when Sergeant Blix intercepted him.

“Assistant commissioner wants to see you, boss.”

Sanderson rolled his eyes, but did not feign surprise. “God, not again. How am I supposed to get anything done? While I’ve got you, Gunnar, check with Metro for any new surveillance footage on today’s disaster — I know it’s a Sunday but get them out of bed. This one looks a lot like the last, and I’m tired of spinning our wheels.”

“Ah … right,” Blix said. “I’ll get on it.” The sergeant turned away, and Sanderson watched him go with a sense that something wasn’t right.

He approached Sjoberg’s open door with caution, and saw the assistant commissioner frowning at his laptop. His mild exterior had acquired new edges, reddened eyes and a furrowed brow — the sea captain was enduring some heavy weather. Sanderson supposed he was getting heat from above. Sjoberg did not like high-profile cases, and this one was nearing critical mass.

With his mouth already set in an upside down U, Sjoberg’s glare deepened when Sanderson breached the door. “Arne, please come in.”

“I was just down at the waterfront,” Sanderson began. “It’s a damned war zone out there. Has National given us—”

“Arne,” Sjoberg interrupted, “please sit down. And close the door, would you?”

A cautious Sanderson did both. “Is something wrong?” he asked. “Is it Elmander? Has he taken a turn for the worse?”

“No, no,” Sjoberg said, “nothing like that. He’s stable.”

“I’m told it might have been serious the way he was bleeding. It was a damned good decision that dispatcher made to scramble EMTs along with the uniformed backup. She should be put up for a citation, if you ask me.”

Sjoberg said nothing.

Sanderson asked again, “What’s wrong? Have I botched something up?”

Sjoberg reached into his desk and pulled out a mobile phone. Sanderson’s mobile phone.

“Thank God! I’ve been looking for that all morning. Where on earth was it?”

“In the unmarked department car you were using yesterday.”

Sanderson reached out and took his phone.

“An officer found it this morning,” said Sjoberg. “It was in the ashtray.”

Sanderson pocketed his phone and said, “Silly of me — that’s where I keep it in my car.”

“But it wasn’t your car.”

Sanderson didn’t like the trajectory of the conversation. “What are you trying to say?”

“I think you know.”

“You can take that idea and—” he squelched the words rising in his throat, words sure to earn a reprimand.

“Friday I took a call from Dr. Samuels, Arne. Your preliminary evaluation was inconclusive, and he feels he must follow up. Unfortunately, you haven’t done your part.”

A silent Sanderson watched Sjoberg steel himself with a deep breath.

“I’m afraid my hands are tied. You’re off the case, effective immediately.”

“What?”

“I’ve booked you in with Samuels tomorrow morning — nine o’clock sharp.”

Sanderson was incredulous. It had all started this summer with a regular physical examination. Sanderson had mentioned that he’d seemed forgetful lately, and the department physician began asking questions. His interest came acute on learning that Sanderson’s mother had suffered from early-onset Alzheimer’s. Now it had come to this. A few misplaced bills had snowballed into a false crisis.

“First of all,” Sanderson insisted, “I would expect a little privacy when it comes to consultations with my doctor. Second, what gives you the right to—”

“To what? To reschedule your Alzheimer’s evaluation because you forgot about another appointment?”

Sanderson shot from his chair. “I did not forget! I was called unexpectedly into court to give evidence!”

Sjoberg stood and met him face to face. “Do you know why your mobile was found earlier? It was ringing. Ringing because Sergeant Elmander, who is now in the hospital, called you to ask for instructions. The man he was tailing on your orders engaged in a conversation with a suspicious character, and Elmander wanted advice on how to proceed. He needed to talk to his superior, and his superior was nowhere to be found!”

Sanderson turned away, stung by the idea that he’d let a fellow officer down. He said nothing for a moment, then, “This is ridiculous. Tell me you’ve never misplaced your mobile.”

“Arne … I’m sorry. There’s probably nothing to this, but I can’t take the chance. This inquiry has become very high profile.”

Sanderson’s urge was to battle, but he knew it would only work against him. He asked quietly, “Who will take over?”

“Anna Forsten from National.”

“A rising star, that one. Ambitious, telegenic. Not suffering from dementia.”

“Please … let’s not make this more difficult than it is. SÄPO has gotten involved. The terrorism angle is getting a lot of play.”

“It’s not terrorism,” Sanderson said quietly. “At least not in the way SÄPO thinks about it.”

“Which brings me to my next point — you’ve got a meeting after lunch with all of them. I want you to get them up to speed on everything we have so far.”

Sanderson sank back into his chair. Sjoberg did the same.

“Please understand my position, Arne. I know this can’t be easy for you.”

Sanderson stared blankly at a display of knotted ropes under glass hanging on the far wall. “And after I brief them? Then what?”

“You’ll be on medical leave until I have an evaluation from the department physician clearing you for full duty.”

Sanderson forced a quiet calm. “All right. I will go see the doctor, do whatever testing is necessary to clear up this nonsense. But I want to stay involved in this inquiry.”

“I don’t see how—”

“Put me on desk duty, whatever you want to call it.” Sanderson looked across the divide and swallowed his pride. “Paul, please — don’t pull me off this one.”

“I’m sorry, Arne, my hands are tied. The sooner you clear this up, the sooner you’ll be reinstated.” Sjoberg looked at him sympathetically.

It was all Sanderson could do to not leap for the man’s throat. With an exaggerated vitality, he rose and strode to the door.

He was reaching for the handle when Sjoberg said, “Arne—”

Sanderson paused.

“Expand on what you said.”

“About what?”

“About SÄPO being convinced this is terrorism. You think otherwise. Why?”

His answer was some time in coming. “By definition terrorism is violence in the pursuit of political aims. Intimidation of the masses. If you look at these shootings no one has been terrorized. This is something else, more like a gang war in our front yard. Everyone involved seems to be a foreign national, but I don’t see anything directed at Sweden.”

Sjoberg nodded. “Yes, I see your point.”

“We should be working with Interpol and the foreign intelligence services. The Americans, to begin — we have to find out who the hell Edmund Deadmarsh is. The man is clearly at the center of it all, but he’s a damned enigma. All the information we have on him has either been disproved or vaporized in the last twenty-four hours.”

Sanderson kept talking for five minutes, rattling off what was essentially a dress rehearsal for his afternoon meeting. He saw Sjoberg actually taking notes. When he was done, he said, “Anything else?”

“No, Arne, that’s all for now. Carry on.”