Hostage

1 STOCKHOLM, 12:27

Once innocence was lost, it could never be regained.

He had thought this on countless occasions. As far as Sweden was concerned, it had begun with the assassination attempt on Drottninggatan right in the middle of the Christmas-shopping rush in Stockholm. Sweden had its first suicide bomber, and the shock waves spread throughout the whole country. What next? Would Sweden become one of those countries whose citizens dared not venture out for fear of terrorist attacks?

No one had been more worried than the Prime Minister.

‘How do we learn to live with this?’ he had asked over a glass of cognac late one night in Rosenbad, the government offices in the city centre.

There was no clear answer to that.

The consequences had been devastating. Not from a material point of view – physical things could be repaired. However, many emotional and moral values had been shattered. As the newly appointed Minister for Justice, he had been astonished to see the shaken individuals demanding new laws in order to make society safer, and had treated them with caution. The government party that opposed immigration capitalised on the situation and made one statement after another.

‘We have to take a firm approach on the issue of terrorism,’ the Foreign Secretary had said when the government met for the first time after the attack.

As if she was the only one who realised this.

They had all looked hopefully at the new Minister for Justice, who had taken up his post only weeks after the terrorist attack in Stockholm.

Muhammed Haddad.

Sometimes he wondered if they had known what was to come, and had handpicked him for the post. As an alibi. As the only person who could take necessary action without anyone being able to call him a racist. Sweden’s first Muslim Minister for Justice. A newcomer to the party who had never met any opposition during his short career. Sometimes it sickened him. He knew that he was given preferential treatment because of his ethnic and religious background. Not that he didn’t deserve his success. He had been a brilliant lawyer, and had realised at an early stage that he wanted to devote himself to criminal law. His clients had dubbed him the miracle worker. He wasn’t satisfied with winning; he also demanded redress. He had been fifteen years old when he came to Sweden; now he was forty-five and knew that he would never return to his homeland, the Lebanon.

His secretary knocked and stuck her head around the door.

‘Säpo called. They’ll be here in half an hour.’

He had been expecting the call. The Security Service, known as Säpo, wanted to discuss a high-security matter, and Muhammed had made it clear that he wished to take the meeting in person, even though this was not common practice.

‘How many of them are coming?’

‘Three.’

‘And Eden Lundell?’

‘She’s coming too.’

Muhammed felt calmer. ‘Show them into the large conference room. Tell the others we’ll meet there five minutes beforehand.’

2 12:32

‘I need to go soon. There’s a meeting I have to attend.’

Fredrika Bergman looked at her watch, then at her former boss, who was sitting opposite her.

Alex Recht shrugged.

‘No problem, we’ll have a longer catch-up some other time.’

She smiled at him warmly.

‘I’d really like that.’

One of the disadvantages of no longer working at Police HQ in Kungsholmen was the lack of decent places for lunch. At the moment, they were in a mediocre Asian restaurant on Drottninggatan. Alex’s choice, not hers.

‘Next time, you can decide where we meet,’ Alex said, as if he could read her mind.

Which he could. Fredrika was rarely good at hiding her feelings.

‘There aren’t that many places to choose from.’

She pushed away her plate. The meeting was due to begin in half an hour, and she ought to be back fifteen minutes beforehand. She tried to interpret the silence that had descended over their table. Perhaps they had already dealt with everything there was to say – straightforward matters that couldn’t possibly lead to unnecessarily painful discussions. They had talked about Alex’s new job with the National Bureau of Investigation. About how much Fredrika was enjoying her temporary post with the Justice Department. About her year on maternity leave in New York with her second child, Isak; Spencer, her husband, had been given a research post there.

‘You should have told us you were getting married – we would have come along,’ Alex said for the second or third time.

Fredrika shifted uncomfortably on her chair.

‘We got married in secret. Even my parents weren’t there.’

Her mother still hadn’t forgiven her.

‘They didn’t try to recruit you in the USA?’ Alex said with a wry smile.

‘Who? NYPD?’

He nodded.

‘No, unfortunately. That really would have been a challenge.’

‘I was there on a course once. The Yanks are like everybody else. Good at some things, bad at others.’

Fredrika couldn’t comment on that point. She hadn’t worked for one single hour during her time in New York. Her entire existence had revolved around the two children, and on the task of getting Spencer back on his feet. Nothing had been the same since a student had accused him of rape two years ago. When they discovered that Fredrika was expecting their second child, they had initially agreed that a termination was the only way out.

‘We can’t cope with another child,’ Spencer had said.

‘It’s not the right time,’ Fredrika had agreed.

Then they had gazed at one another for a long time.

‘We’re keeping it,’ Spencer said.

‘That’s exactly how I feel,’ Fredrika said.

Alex put down his coffee cup with a clatter.

‘I thought you’d come back. To the police.’

‘You mean after New York?’

‘Yes.’

The noise of the other diners suddenly seemed intrusive.

Forgive me, she wanted to say. Forgive me for making you wait, even though I knew I had no intention of coming back.

But not one word passed her lips.

‘On the other hand, I understand that you couldn’t turn down a job with the Justice Department,’ Alex said. ‘It’s not every day you get an offer like that.’

It wasn’t an offer. I went after the bloody job, because I knew that my soul would rot if I came back to Kungsholmen.

Fredrika pushed back a strand of hair from her face.

‘That’s true.’

There was nothing more to say. After the case involving the writer who refused to speak and the graves in Midsommarkransen that Alex and his team had investigated in the spring of 2009, everything hads started to fall apart. When Margareta Berlin, the head of Human Resources, had called Alex into her office to tell him that the special unit he had led for the past few years was to be dissolved, the news was far from unexpected. The team was running on empty, and Alex was putting all his energy into his relationship with Diana Trolle, the new woman in his life, while Fredrika had fallen pregnant.

‘Have you heard from Peder?’

Alex gave a start when he heard Peder’s name.

‘No – how about you?’

She shook her head sadly.

‘Not since he cleared his office. But I did hear… that he wasn’t doing too well.’

‘I heard the same.’ Alex cleared his throat. ‘I bumped into Ylva last week. She told me a bit about how things had been.’

Fredrika tried to imagine the hell Peder was living through, but it was impossible. She didn’t know how many times she had tried, but it was always equally difficult.

Some things just don’t heal. However hard we fight.

She knew that Alex had a different view of the situation: he felt that Peder ought to pull himself together and move on. Which was why she hadn’t mentioned it before.

‘He’s got to stop behaving as if he has a monopoly on grief,’ Alex said, using the same words as he always did when they attempted to talk about what had happened. ‘He’s not the only one who’s lost someone close.’

Alex had lost his wife Lena to cancer, so he knew the dark depths of grief. But it seemed to Fredrika that there were essential differences between losing someone to cancer and having a brother murdered by a ruthless killer.

‘I don’t think Peder’s in a state where he can make decisions about how he’s feeling,’ she said, choosing her words with care. ‘His grief has become an illness.’

‘But he’s asked for help, and he’s been given help. And he’s still no better.’

They fell silent, reluctant to pursue the discussion. They knew that if they did, they would end up falling out, as usual.

‘I really do have to make a move.’

Fredrika started to gather up her things. Handbag, scarf, jacket.

‘You know I’ll always keep the door open for you.’

She stopped in mid-movement, thinking that no, she hadn’t actually known that at all.

‘Thanks.’

‘You were one of the best, Fredrika.’

Her cheeks grew hot and her vision was suddenly blurred.

Alex looked as if he was about to say something else, but she put a stop to that by getting to her feet. They left the restaurant together and, in the middle of Drottninggatan, Alex held out his arms and gave her a hug.

‘I miss you too,’ Fredrika whispered.

Then they went their separate ways.

Detective Inspector Alex Recht had a distinguished career behind him. He had spent many years in the police service, with considerable success. In 2007, his efforts had been rewarded: he was asked to form a special investigation team. It would be small, but would bring together the most competent individuals. Additional resources would be available when necessary. Alex had started by recruiting the relatively young but driven Peder Rydh; he had proved himself to be a talented and conscientious investigator, but his temperament could be volatile, and his judgement was sometimes flawed. With hindsight, Alex had asked himself if he was partly to blame for the tragedy that had occurred two years ago, resulting in Peder’s dismissal from the police service. He didn’t think so. It had been a terrible case, and the price had been high for all those involved.

But no one had paid a higher price than Peder’s brother, Jimmy.

Alex knew he shouldn’t brood on the case that had cost him so much. Following Peder’s sudden departure from the team, things had gone downhill fast. Fredrika Bergman, the only member of the team who hadn’t been handpicked by Alex, had lost her spark, and when she then became pregnant with her second child, it seemed to Alex that she somehow disappeared from active duty.

He was the first to admit that he hadn’t liked her initially. Fredrika was an academic, a civilian investigator with no real aptitude or interest in the job. For a long time, Alex had tried to circumvent her, giving her the simplest tasks he could find. Until one day he realised that he was wrong. In fact, she had a considerable aptitude for the job. However, her lack of interest was still a problem. Alex could see that she wasn’t happy within the organisation, and there wasn’t a great deal he could do to change things. The impetus had to come from her, and one day she turned a corner. When the case of Rebecca Trolle’s dismembered body landed on Alex’s desk, Fredrika came back early from her maternity leave. The team had reached its zenith that spring. They had never been better.

Alex picked up his coffee cup and went along to the kitchen for a top-up. He had a new job with the National Bureau of Investigation. A good job in a good team. Interesting cases related to serious organised crime. However, he couldn’t help missing the life he used to have. Before everything fell apart. Lunch with Fredrika had merely served to remind him of everything he had lost.

He wasn’t stupid; he realised that Fredrika had applied for the post with the Justice Department because she wanted to get away. It was hard to criticise her for making that choice. She was a conscientious and hardworking individual, and people like that always get restless. Alex wasn’t sure what her actual role was within the department; he knew that she had a certain amount of contact with the Security Service, but he hadn’t delved any further.

He had other things to think about.

People he had lost, in different ways.

‘You can’t keep going over it all like this,’ Diana had said only the day before. ‘You’ve got to put what has happened behind you.’

Diana Trolle.

He would have been lost without her. She knew just as well as he did what real grief felt like, how painful it could be. Sometimes he wasn’t sure whether they would have fallen in love if they hadn’t been united by a sense of despair.

Grief.

Loss.

Pain.

He had known that they existed, that they had to be taken into account. Being crushed was just part of life. Or was it? He felt a fresh wave of irritation when he thought about Peder. Why the hell couldn’t he just pull himself together? Why couldn’t he deal with the trauma in a different way, rather than making himself unhappy all the time?

If only Peder had handled things better, he could have kept his job and carried on working with Alex and Fredrika. Because when it came down to it, that was what Alex found so upsetting: he had lost a close colleague, someone he had enjoyed working with. And even though he knew it wasn’t fair, he found that very hard to forgive.

Alex’s train of thought was interrupted as his boss stuck his head around the door.

‘Bomb threat,’ he said. ‘Came in just now.’

‘I’m on it,’ Alex said, getting to his feet.

A bomb threat. Buildings destroyed, human beings blown to pieces. An evil act in its purest form.

A short while later, he was fully up to speed. Not one but four bomb threats, targeting different places in Stockholm. Including Rosenbad, the government building.

Alex couldn’t understand it.

Four bombs. What the hell was this about?

3 12:32

Where did all this anger come from?

Eden Lundell had no idea. As the head of the Security Service’s counter-terrorism unit, she was expected to have a clear grasp of every case that passed through her hands, but she often found it extremely difficult to follow the thought processes that lay behind the actions of certain individuals.

Right now there were a number of issues that merited closer attention, and Eden had to prioritise. Resources were limited, and she wanted to see results. Patience was a quality she had lacked all her life, and things hadn’t improved since she came to work for Säpo.

If only they understood the origins, the source of this rage. The rage that made young people turn their backs on respect for life, and resort to violence in order to bring about the changes they thought were necessary. To commit acts of terrorism. Eden had asked herself many times what could possibly make her cross that line, make her take up arms and fight against people living in the same country as her, with no evidence of antipathy.

What would drive me to commit the worst sin of all?

She had reached the conclusion that the love she felt for her family might be just such a trigger. If they were threatened or affected by misfortune in some way.

God forbid that such a thing should ever happen, because then I will lay waste the castle of my enemy.

But the anger that Eden encountered through her work didn’t seem to have a personal background. The hatred took root within young people for a completely different reason. It was impossible to point to one single factor that could explain the whole phenomenon, however hard they looked for it.

Eden was systematically going through the latest pile of material in one of the cases on her desk. It was depressingly thin. The original information was unequivocal: the suspects were financing acts of terrorism in Colombia. But this source could not be used in court and, therefore, Säpo had to get hold of their own information in order to confirm what they already knew and, hopefully, lead to a successful prosecution.

All too often, the intelligence said one thing and the evidence another, always with the same result. The prosecution would lose in court, or even before the case got there. The authorities would end up looking weak and incompetent, and as if they were constantly persecuting innocent individuals who had done nothing whatsoever to deserve the attentions of the security service.

Eden couldn’t understand why there was always the same fuss. Her years with the National Bureau of Investigation hadn’t exactly been a catalogue of successful investigations, but that kind of thing aroused far less interest from the public and the media. However, since the terrorist attack in Stockholm, Eden felt that a great deal had changed. Expectations were higher. If they hadn’t won the latest case in the crown court, their everyday working lives would have been much more challenging.

There was a knock on Eden’s door, and Sebastian, the unit’s head of analysis, walked in. Eden pushed the papers on her desk across to him.

‘What do you think?’

‘Exactly what I’ve been saying for the last few weeks. We’re not going to come up with anything else on these guys. Let it go.’

Eden nodded thoughtfully. ‘And what about the money we know they’re sending to terrorist organisations in South America?’

Sebastian shrugged. ‘We can’t win ’em all.’

Eden tossed the papers into the cupboard and slammed the door shut. The case was history as soon as it disappeared from view. She would focus on Zakaria Khelifi instead – the man who had been freed by the court, while his friends were sent down.

‘When are we due at the Justice Department?’

‘In half an hour. I thought we could walk.’

That sounded like a good idea. Eden could have a cigarette on the way and think about what she could say to make the Minister for Justice realise that the government must expel the Algerian Zakaria Khelifi from the country.

Given all the information they had, and the fact that the Immigration Court of Appeal had gone along with their view, it shouldn’t be particularly difficult. And once Khelifi had left the country, they could finally draw a line under Operation Paradise.

The meeting was held in one of the department’s more discreet rooms. The Minister for Justice was present, along with the Secretary of State, a political expert and a handful of civil servants who were involved. Fredrika Bergman was part of this latter group. Säpo had come to Rosenbad to put forward what they referred to as a security issue. They wanted a foreign citizen’s residence permit revoked, on the grounds that the man could become a serious threat to national security. The case had gone from the Immigration Board to the Immigration Court of Appeal, and now it had ended up with the government.

Fredrika couldn’t help reflecting on the way they were seated at the table: the Justice Department on one side, Säpo on the other. All the representatives from Säpo had introduced themselves with some kind of title underlining their authority: head of department, head of analysis, and Eden Lundell, head of the counter-terrorism unit. She smelled of cigarette smoke; she must be around six feet tall, and her hair was a shade of honey blonde that Fredrika refused to believe was her natural colour. The smell of smoke was surprising; Eden looked too fresh to be a smoker.

‘Let’s make a start,’ the Minister said. ‘We’ve got half an hour.’

The head of analysis placed a laptop on the table and started it up. Eden reached over and attached the computer to a cable.

‘Could you switch on the projector?’ she said to Fredrika.

Her voice was husky, and she spoke with an accent that Fredrika couldn’t quite place. She had long, slender fingers with short, unvarnished nails. If she had let them grow and painted them red, she could have picked up any man she wanted in a bar. Fredrika noticed a ring on Eden’s left hand. She was either married or engaged. That was just as much of a surprise as the cigarette smoke.

‘Of course,’ Fredrika said, starting up the projector on the ceiling with two clicks.

The head of analysis began his presentation. The first image appeared on the screen. Blue background, Säpo’s logo on the right. Small white dots in different formations. The heading was straightforward: THE CASE OF ZAKARIA KHELIFI.

Next image. BACKGROUND.

Eden took over.

‘As you all know, Zakaria Khelifi was the subject of a case in which the court ruled last week. The prosecutor was aiming for a conviction on the grounds of preparing to commit an act of terrorism, but Khelifi was acquitted and released.’

The head of department, who was sitting next to Eden and was obviously her boss, coughed discreetly. Eden went on, ‘However, in the case involving Khelifi, we did manage to secure convictions on the same charge for two other North African nationals. We were able to prove that they had spent the months before their arrest preparing a major attack which was to be directed at the Swedish parliament. We found an explosive device that was virtually complete, and the means to make at least two more. We believe that the attack was to be carried out during the key debate on immigration and integration, which has been talked about for such a long time but has not yet taken place.’

‘Tomorrow,’ the Minister said. ‘It’s scheduled for tomorrow morning.’

Fredrika went cold all over whenever the immigration-and-integration debate was mentioned. It was something that no one really wanted, apart from those who were racists. Had the debate been the target of the two men who had just been convicted? If that was the case, then they must have been ready and waiting for the most perfect and most spectacular opportunity to strike, because the debate had only been under discussion for a few weeks.

‘We think the two men were acting alone. All of our intelligence points in that direction, and we see no reason to revise that assessment. Therefore, we have not raised the question of increased security in the parliament building; that includes tomorrow’s debate. Apart from what had been planned already, of course. We have liaised with our colleagues in the police, and they have put rigorous security measures in place in order to ensure that the debate can proceed peacefully.’

Of course, Fredrika thought. Even when you were using the fabric of democracy in order to try to abolish it, you had the support of the forces of law and order.

The head of department interrupted Eden’s presentation.

‘The successful outcome in court with regard to the two men was very welcome, as far as we are concerned. It was important for Säpo to be able to avert a terrorist attack. We are told all too often that we do too little or too much, too early or too late.’

Fredrika understood what he was talking about. When Säpo took a case to court but failed to secure a conviction, they were often heavily criticised, particularly in those instances when an arrest didn’t even lead to prosecution. She had often reflected on the delicate balancing act the Swedish security services had to maintain, and she had wondered whether she herself would have been able to carry out such a thankless task.

Then came Drottninggatan, and the wind changed. Those same journalists who had often claimed that the security services sometimes overstepped the mark now thought that far too little was being done. The man who blew himself up on Drottninggatan had been on Facebook, for God’s sake, so why hadn’t Säpo known about him?

Who wants a society where Säpo monitors everyone on Facebook? Fredrika had asked herself. Quite a lot of people, apparently.

Eden carried on talking. Fredrika wondered what the head of analysis was there for. To carry the laptop around, perhaps?

‘The two perpetrators who were convicted last week were acting alone, but we have identified several collaborators close to them,’ Eden said. ‘Zakaria Khelifi is one of those collaborators.’

She pointed to the picture of Zakaria on the screen.

‘He was the only one on whom we had sufficient evidence for an arrest and prosecution.’

The Minister for Justice tilted his head to one side.

‘I think we should regard it as a positive point that it takes a considerable amount of evidence to secure a conviction, in other crimes as well as terrorism.’

‘Of course.’

Silence.

‘Zakaria Khelifi,’ Eden said. ‘That’s why we’re here.’

Everyone was listening.

4 13:12

‘Zakaria Khelifi came to Sweden from Algeria in 2008. He was an asylum seeker, and claimed that he was being persecuted by a notorious family because he had been seeing the daughter of the family, and had happened to get her pregnant before they married. According to Zakaria, his wife had been murdered by her own relatives.

‘During the spring, we received several indications suggesting that further groups were planning terrorist attacks on targets in Sweden, and that these attacks were connected with similar cases in other European countries. We felt that it was possible to take this information seriously in only one of the Swedish cases.’

New image: three small photographs of men whom Fredrika recognised from the media – the two men who had been convicted in court, and Zakaria Khelifi who had been acquitted.

‘To begin with, there was no sign of Zakaria Khelifi in our investigation, but then he started to be seen more and more often in the company of the main suspects. On one occasion, thanks to telephone surveillance, we heard one of the men say, “You can go and pick up the item we talked about yesterday,” at which point, Khelifi went and collected a package containing substances that we were later able to establish were part of the explosive device constructed by the main suspects.’

‘Zakaria Khelifi said in court that he didn’t know what the package contained,’ the Secretary of State added.

‘Indeed he did, but, in the surveillance footage, he seemed very nervous when he went into the shop to collect it. He looked around several times while he was carrying it to his car, and he was dripping with sweat by the time he got in and drove away. We should also mention that, under interrogation, one of the main suspects named Khelifi as one of their collaborators.’

‘A statement which Ellis later retracted, I believe?’ the Minister for Justice said.

‘Yes, and that surprised us. Before the trial began, he had been very clear in his description of Khelifi’s role, insisting that Khelifi had been a great help. We have no idea why Ellis backtracked when the prosecutor questioned him, to be honest. We’ve tried to find out whether he was threatened in some way, but he refuses to answer our questions. He just keeps saying that he mixed up different names and different people and, unfortunately, said the wrong thing. But none of us believes that. Ellis was telling the truth during the interrogation, and he lied in court.’

The Minister listened in silence as Eden carried on talking.

‘It turns out that this wasn’t the first time Khelifi had been associated with individuals suspected of terrorist crimes. We have subsequently discovered that he came up during a preliminary investigation back in 2009, the year he was given a residence permit. We were following up on a number of people that we suspected of financing terrorist activity overseas but, unfortunately, we had to drop the case as we were unable to prove that a crime had been committed.’

New image.

Fredrika and the others looked at it attentively.

‘We found Khelifi’s contact details through secret phone surveillance – mapping phone traffic. There were several numbers that we were unable to identify, but one of them later turned out to belong to Khelifi. We then noticed that Khelifi’s number also cropped up in connection with another operation that we had launched after the terrorist threats in France earlier this year.’

The Minister for Justice looked troubled. ‘He was involved in those as well?’

‘We don’t know for sure. But we do know that before the attack, he had been in contact with one of the perpetrators who was convicted in the French courts last spring. Although, at that time, we had yet to realise who the phone number belonged to, as I said.’

Fredrika was curious. Phone tapping and surveillance could take an investigation a long way; she had seen it happen in virtually every case she had been involved in during her time with the police. You just had to work out how everything hung together, which wasn’t always easy.

‘What did Zakaria Khelifi say when you asked about his phone contacts?’ she asked. ‘The ones linked to previous investigations?’

‘He said the phone belonged to someone else at the time,’ Eden replied. ‘He said he only bought it in February or March 2011.’

‘Can you disprove that?’ the Secretary of State asked.

‘No, but we don’t need to. He couldn’t tell us exactly when he bought the phone, or who from, or how much he paid. It was obviously something he came up with after the event.’

‘I see,’ said the Minister for Justice, who was keen to move on. ‘So, Zakaria Khelifi was acquitted in court. And now you want us to revoke his residence permit?’

‘Yes. In view of the facts we have presented here today, we are asking you to revoke Zakaria Khelifi’s permanent residence permit so that he can be taken into custody and sent home to Algeria. He has cropped up in three preliminary investigations and operations, he was named by Ellis during interrogation, and he obviously helped the two perpetrators with their preparations.’

The Minister for Justice leaned back in his chair.

‘Are there any obstacles to implementing this course of action, or is it possible for him to go home?’

‘According to the Immigration Court of Appeal, there is no reason why he can’t be deported. The Algerian authorities have not been involved in our work, and they have no reason to seek him out. He is therefore not at risk of torture or the death penalty.’

The Secretary of State joined in the discussion. ‘And what about the reasons why he was given permission to stay here in the first place?’

‘No longer applicable,’ Eden said. ‘The father and brother of his ex-wife died in a road-traffic accident some time ago. We believe that the remaining family members are no longer interested in punishing him.’

Fredrika didn’t say a word. This was a whole new world to her.

‘How does this guy make a living?’ the Minister wanted to know.

‘He’s worked as a youth leader.’

Fredrika remembered how he had been portrayed in the media: the nice guy who worked with young people and had difficulty finding a way into Swedish society. Zakaria Khelifi had learned to speak fluent Swedish, and was in many ways an excellent role model. A youth leader who was helping terrorists at the same time. Fredrika found it difficult to reconcile these two contradictory images.

The legs of the Minister’s chair scraped against the parquet floor as he moved.

‘And what is this going to look like in the media?’ he said. ‘Zakaria Khelifi has just been acquitted on two separate counts in court, and yet both Säpo and the government decide to send him home.’

‘What’s the alternative?’ Eden asked. ‘Let him stay here? Keep him under surveillance? Risk a situation where he becomes an icon for young people in the suburbs with an immigrant background? An icon who could inspire others to join the armed struggle? We can do that, of course. But in that case, both the government and Säpo will be guilty of dereliction of duty, because it is our responsibility to ensure that those who could constitute a security threat do not have the opportunity to establish themselves in this country.’

She shook her head and continued: ‘We can’t risk that kind of domino effect; we have to be clear and make an example of Khelifi. And even if the odd journalist writes a negative article, the message to those who seek to join people like Zakaria Khelifi will be crystal clear: you don’t fuck with Swedish democracy.’

The Minister for Justice appeared to be deep in thought, and Fredrika wondered what Eden’s background was. Her rhetoric was not Swedish, and it looked as if her head of department was embarrassed by the way she had spoken.

Nobody said anything, and suddenly a brief ringtone sliced through the silence.

‘Sorry, I forgot to switch it off,’ Eden said, taking her mobile out of her pocket.

Eden’s colleagues were staring at her. Everyone was expected to turn off their phone.

But Eden didn’t seem to care what anyone thought. Her attention was focused on the phone in her hand; she read the message she had just received, then said:

‘Apparently, there have been a number of bomb threats against targets in Stockholm. One of those targets is Rosenbad.’

Less than a minute later, the meeting was over, and Säpo had disappeared from the room as if by magic.

5 13:35

There was a time when Alex Recht had wanted nothing more than a post within Säpo. But many felt they were called and few were chosen. Year after year, Alex waited for the magical phone call that would change his life, the voice that would say he was wanted and welcome, that he was one of those who would be allowed through the portals.

Eventually, they did call. It was a Sunday, and Alex and Lena were busy repainting the fence. They called, and even though they didn’t say who they were, Alex knew. He was given a time and place for a meeting. He arrived five minutes late and informed them that he wasn’t interested. By that time, he had got to know several people who worked within the organisation, and he thought they looked bored to death by the whole thing. He didn’t actually say that during the meeting, but talked about how much he was enjoying his present post, and how much he wanted to remain in what was referred to as the open side of the police.

‘Well, you can always go back,’ said the Säpo representative.

But Alex wasn’t so sure about that. If he started working for Säpo, there was a risk that he would stay there. And the idea didn’t appeal to him one little bit.

Once you had rejected Säpo, they never came back. Not that he was waiting for it to happen, but as the years went by and Alex gained a reputation as one of Sweden’s leading investigators, he thought they would contact him again. They didn’t. Perhaps they sensed that he still wasn’t interested.

Alex was sitting quietly in his office, thinking hard. Four bomb threats against different targets in inner-city Stockholm. First of all, someone had phoned and said the target was the Royal Library in Humlegården. Then another call came in, this time about the Central Station. Then the Åhlén’s department store. And finally, Rosenbad, the government building, which meant that Säpo were automatically drawn in. According to Alex’s boss, they would be in touch with him as soon as they had completed their own assessment.

The situation required an immediate response. Alex felt instinctively that the whole thing was nothing more than a hoax; someone was bored and had decided to make false bomb threats in order to cause havoc. At the same time, they had to be careful. Sweden couldn’t cope with any more acts of terrorism, and it certainly couldn’t cope with any mistakes on the part of the police.

According to the caller, the first bomb would explode at five o’clock that afternoon, the next at five fifteen, the third at five thirty and the fourth at five forty-five. It wasn’t clear which target would be attacked first, and no reason was given for the threat.

The only thing they knew for certain was that at five o’clock in the afternoon all the targeted locations would be crowded with people.

They had tried to trace the calls, but they had all been made using unregistered pay-as-you-go SIM cards and different mobile phones. The person who called had used some kind of voice distortion, which made Alex raise his eyebrows; it was very unusual, almost ridiculous really. He hadn’t heard such rubbish since the eighties.

He was sure that the same person had made all four calls, even though they had come from different phones, but just to be on the safe side, he requested a rapid analysis of the mast links to see where the calls had been made. They had come in at intervals of less than three minutes, so it ought to be possible to tell if it was the same person who had made all four calls.

The phone on Alex’s desk rang; he picked it up and heard a husky female voice.

‘Eden Lundell from Säpo; I’m calling about the bomb threats. I got your name and number from Hjärpe.’

Hjärpe was Alex’s boss. If he had been informed, then everything was as it should be. It sounded as if Eden Lundell was outdoors, because the line was crackling.

‘I was expecting to hear from you,’ Alex said. ‘How can I help?’

Säpo, so near and yet so far. Their offices were inside police HQ, and yet they were a world of their own.

‘We need to meet. Can you come over to us?’

Alex couldn’t recall ever having worked with Säpo in this way. Of course he knew that they had collaborated with the police on major incidents, such as the murder of Anna Lindh, the Foreign Secretary, outside the NK department store, but he had never been involved.

He told Eden Lundell he was on his way.

‘Great, I’ll come down and meet you.’

‘I’ll be there in five minutes.’

‘Make it ten. I’m just on my way back from a meeting at Rosenbad.’

It just wasn’t acceptable for someone to make a bomb threat against Rosenbad on the day before parliament gathered to debate the issues surrounding immigration and integration. Particularly as it was less than an hour since Eden Lundell had sat there and personally assured Sweden’s Minister for Justice that there was no need for increased security during the debate.

‘It’s not necessarily anything serious,’ the head of analysis said when Eden caught up with him by the lifts as she was on her way down to collect Alex Recht.

She had dashed into her office and dropped off her handbag when she got back from the meeting at the Justice Department. From a suspected terrorist to suspected bomb threats. The world was not an attractive place for someone who had Eden’s job.

‘Can we take the risk?’

Sebastian looked unhappy. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, we can’t.’

Eden pushed the lift call button impatiently. ‘There’s going to be hell to pay when we evacuate both the Central Station and Rosenbad.’

Sebastian nodded in agreement. ‘But nobody will thank us if we don’t bother, and let everyone die instead.’

Eden laughed. ‘You’re not wrong there.’ Her expression grew serious. As the lift doors slid open, she turned to Sebastian. ‘Why Rosenbad? I mean, the debate is taking place elsewhere, in the parliament building. And it’s tomorrow, not today.’

‘Because this isn’t about the debate.’

‘So what is it about?’

‘I have no idea. Maybe somebody was bored. Maybe they just want to test the system.’

Eden stepped into the lift and held the doors to stop them closing. ‘By the way, Alex Recht – do you know anything about him?’

‘He’s like you.’

‘A woman?’

‘A legend.’

Eden allowed the doors to close.

It was Fredrika Bergman’s job to assess the political grounds for deporting Zakaria Khelifi. In plain language, this meant making sure that it wasn’t a repeat of the Egyptian fiasco. How she was supposed to achieve this wasn’t at all clear, but if she failed, many heads would roll. She couldn’t stop thinking about the bomb threats Eden had mentioned before the meeting broke up so abruptly. She wondered whether Alex was working on them.

Not that it mattered. She and Alex were no longer colleagues; she had other duties.

With her head in her hands, she sat and read through Zakaria Khelifi’s application for asylum.

He had met the love of his life in the spring of 2006. She wasn’t from the family into which his father thought he ought to marry, but his father decided to allow the marriage to take place. According to Zakaria, he had given them his blessing and wished them every happiness.

So far, so good. To begin with, the girl’s parents had also been favourably disposed towards the young couple’s romance. Zakaria came from a decent family, he had studied at university for several years, and he expected to get a good job. His girlfriend was also university-educated. They were both intending to carry on working after they got married. The girl had asked her mother if she would help out with taking care of any possible grandchildren in the future, and her mother had agreed.

But as so often in the past, there was no happy ending to this particular fairy tale. Suddenly the girl’s father decided that he wanted his daughter to marry the son of a business acquaintance instead. At the very least he insisted she should take a break from her relationship with Zakaria and give this new man a chance. The girl refused, which led to violent family quarrels. According to Zakaria, the young couple eventually ran away and settled in a different part of the country, where they found it difficult to find work and to make ends meet.

At this point the girl discovered she was pregnant. Zakaria Khelifi had told the Immigration Board they were both happy about the child, but at the same time they were afraid that people would find out they had started a family before they were married. Therefore, they got married very quickly. Unfortunately, somehow the rumour that the girl had got pregnant while she was still single reached the ears of her parents. That was the beginning of a nightmare that ended when Zakaria’s wife died in a car accident halfway through her pregnancy.

Zakaria Khelifi claimed that his wife’s eldest brother called him and told him that the car accident had been arranged, and that they would deal with Zakaria too as soon as the opportunity arose. So-called honour killings were not uncommon in many places around the world, including Algeria on occasion. Zakaria left the country a week or so later.

And now, just a few years down the line, he had ended up in the middle of Säpo’s latest terrorist investigation, and they wanted him deported – in spite of the fact that he had a legally binding judgement granting him permanent residence in Sweden. He also had a steady job and a girlfriend. The state had far-reaching powers when it came to handling threats against national security.

Fredrika tried not to feel uneasy. Deporting someone who had previously been deemed to have grounds for asylum was a serious measure, with radical consequences for the individual. Surely, Säpo would exercise extreme caution when taking such a step? The statistics supported this view; cases like that of Zakaria Khelifi were exceptionally rare.

At the same time, it was impossible to ignore the context that had given rise to this particular case.

Over the past decade, the fear of international terrorism had become overwhelming. And that fear gave legitimacy to counter-measures which would otherwise have been less clear-cut. How could you make sure that no innocent party got caught in the crossfire? You had to have the courage to ask such questions, even if they had been asked many times before. The authorities always faced the dilemma of possibly punishing innocent people, irrespective of the type of criminal behaviour involved. But when it came to terrorism, the issue became even more important. The consequences of making the wrong call could be catastrophic.

She had been fascinated by Säpo’s presentation. Very little of the content or delivery had surprised her; since she started working for the police, she had often thought that Säpo’s reputation for drama was undeserved. Perhaps it was their own fault. In spite of the fact that there had been a stated policy of transparency for several years, at times, Fredrika still couldn’t see why they didn’t do more to explain their actions.

One of her colleagues knocked on the door. ‘The phones are red hot.’

‘Because of the bomb threats?’

‘Yes. They want to know if they government is taking the threats seriously, and if there’s a link to the recent terrorism convictions. Or to tomorrow’s parliamentary debate.’

Fredrika sincerely hoped not.

And yet she could see it all so clearly. How one problem led to another, like concentric ripples spreading out across the water.

If this was the start of something new, there was good reason to wonder how it would end.

6 14:01

They gathered in one of Säpo’s conference rooms. Eden Lundell chaired the meeting, which included investigators, analysts and Alex Recht from the police. Alex reported on the results of his own brief inquiries: four unregistered pay-as-you-go SIM cards. The same person had probably made all four calls, but that was all they knew at the moment.

‘When will you find out where the calls came from?’ Eden asked.

The case of Zakaria Khelifi was already long gone. The here and now was what mattered; four bomb threats, four potential targets.

‘Within the next few hours,’ Alex replied.

The situation was critical. Decisions had to be made immediately. If they were taking the threats seriously, they had to act soon.

Eden had taken an immediate liking to Alex, which was very unusual for her. She was normally very cautious about opening up to people she didn’t know, but it was different with Alex Recht. Sebastian had said he was like her; perhaps there was some truth in that.

‘What steps would you want to take?’ Eden asked Alex. ‘Setting aside the threat to Rosenbad, how would you handle this?’

Alex frowned. That was another thing Eden liked about him; he thought before he spoke, in spite of the urgency of the situation. Panicking rarely helped, and it annoyed Eden that so few people she had met during her career understood such a simple premise.

‘I don’t like the fact that the threats mentioned specific times. Nor do I like the fact that they came in through four separate phone calls, and that voice distortion was used. And I don’t understand why someone would go for targets as diverse as the Royal Library and Åhlén’s department store.’

‘So what’s your conclusion?’ Sebastian asked.

Alex looked at him. ‘That we need to evacuate all the locations immediately, and if nothing happens, we simply lift the restrictions.’

‘I agree,’ Eden said.

She gestured towards one of her colleagues. ‘Do it – evacuate all four locations. Try to handle it discreetly.’

Alex smiled at her. ‘Unfortunately I don’t think all the discretion in the world will do any good. There’s going to be a hell of a fuss.’

‘That can’t be helped.’

Sebastian raised his hand to indicate that he had something to say.

‘Yes?’ Eden said.

‘You don’t think this could be a diversionary tactic?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘At nine thirty tomorrow morning, parliament will open the most controversial debate of the year. And we have just decided to dedicate all our resources to investigating no less than four bomb threats targeting completely different locations.’

Rain was hammering against the window pane behind Eden, but she hardly noticed it. How could she have missed something so obvious?

‘Parliament,’ Alex said. ‘It’s not my call, but don’t you think they should cancel the debate? Or at least postpone it until we know what this is all about?’

Sebastian placed a hand on Eden’s arm.

‘I agree. An hour ago, we said that we didn’t think tomorrow’s debate merited increased security arrangements, but now our assessment has changed. That means the debate should be cancelled or postponed.’

Eden moved her arm away.

‘That’s GD’s decision. All we can do is supply the information and make decisions.’

Säpo’s General Director was always known within the organisation as GD. Everyone knew his name was Buster, but he was only ever referred to as GD.

‘Of course.’

Eden glanced at the clock. Time was passing much too quickly. She wished she could put her finger on the hands and stop them from moving.

The decision to evacuate the four targeted locations was made just fifteen minutes later by the commanding officer of the Stockholm city police, together with the general director of Säpo. The city police would handle the practical arrangements and ensure that the buildings were emptied. Alex could feel his pulse rate increasing as he ran back to his office along the corridor.

Peder Rydh would have loved this, he thought. And Fredrika would have been the one reminding us to stop and think.

The four bomb threats overshadowed every other news item. The journalists had a hundred questions, but the police had no answers. In the shadow of the tumult that followed the evacuation of the four locations, there was a brief interval during which the police were able to evacuate the parliament building as well, and search the whole place with sniffer dogs. Just after four o’clock, the press caught up with the story, and parliament was besieged with reporters.

The big question was whether to advise the postponement of the debate. Eden Lundell was right; it wasn’t her decision. It was an issue for other branches of Säpo to consider, and Alex assumed that it would then be up to the director to make a recommendation. But what did Alex know – after all, he had once turned down the opportunity to work within the country’s most secret security service. They had no evidence whatsoever to suggest that the threat was actually directed at parliament, even though it was tempting to jump to that conclusion.

Alex couldn’t stop thinking about Eden Lundell. He had heard her name before, but they had never met. How was that possible? How could she have been working for the National Bureau of Investigation for several years without their bumping into one another?

Eden was not a police officer, but she had gone through the formal leadership programme, and had far better qualifications than most. It was clear that she had no objection to getting her hands dirty. She wasn’t the classic desk jockey who avoided the practical aspects of the job and buried themselves in admin. Eden Lundell had real presence, and Alex caught himself thinking that he would really like to work with her.

He went straight up to his office, picked up his jacket and went out again. He didn’t want to sit there wondering what was going on, he wanted to be on the spot. His boss looked surprised when Alex called by and said that he was on his way to parliament. It wasn’t about the need to control things, it was simply a desire to be in the thick of the action. And to try to understand what was going on.

One of the squad cars was parked on Polhemsgatan. Alex unlocked the door and climbed in. It was pouring down, and he got soaked even though he hurried.

As he glanced in the rear-view mirror, he saw Eden scurry past; she ran across Polhemsgatan to a car parked a little way down the street. Was she going to parliament as well? If so, she could travel with Alex. But Eden was fast. She was already in the car and had started the engine. Alex didn’t move. Perhaps she wasn’t going to parliament at all, but to another meeting.

When Eden drove away, Alex was still sitting behind the wheel. They were the ones who had assumed that parliament was a target for the person who had made the threats. They were the ones who had created this sense of confusion. As he turned the key, he couldn’t help wondering if that had in fact been the aim: to cause havoc.

7 16:03

It was obvious that the bomb threats had frightened people. Fredrika Bergman and her colleagues in the Justice Department who had offices in Rosenbad were evacuated along with everyone else. Fredrika slipped her documents into her bag and was given a temporary workstation in the Foreign Office building on Fredsgatan, where she would continue to work on Zakaria Khelifi’s case. She was acutely aware of the anxiety engendered by the threats, and spoke to several of her colleagues on the phone. No one had heard anything new, no one had any idea what it was all about.

She felt restless as she turned her attention to Khelifi’s case. She made one call after another, getting in touch with the Immigration Board, the Immigration Supreme Court and the police. There was nothing to add as far as Khelifi was concerned. He would have to leave the country. Zakaria Khelifi would serve as an example of what happened if you challenged democracy and an open society. As the idiot who had just made four separate bomb threats had done.

Fredrika couldn’t settle. Why did she never enjoy her job? Why did she constantly wish she was somewhere else, doing something different? There had been times when she had thought she would never find job satisfaction in her life. The pursuit of happiness had subsided since the birth of her children. They assuaged her hunger in a way that felt secure, enabling her to grow as a person. She ran her finger over the photograph of her son. So like his father. She hoped that Spencer would live for many years to come, so that the child wouldn’t lose his father when he was too young.

Thinking about Spencer’s age often made her feel stressed, so she made an effort and focused on the computer. She read several articles about the bomb threats that had paralysed the whole of inner-city Stockholm in less than an hour.

His name cropped up in the middle of one piece. Alex Recht.

Detective Inspector Alex Recht was not prepared to comment on the National Bureau of Investigation’s view of the bomb threats that have been received, but he stated that all necessary measures have been taken, and that the Stockholm city police and Säpo are working closely together.

A longing that Fredrika had been unaware of suddenly sprang to life. Alex Recht was one of the best bosses she had ever had, far superior to any other team leader she had known.

Without thinking about what she was doing, she reached out and picked up her mobile. Alex answered at the third ring.

‘Things are pretty difficult right now, Fredrika.’

‘I realise that. I just wanted to…’

What did she want? What had she been thinking when she called him? Nothing at all.

‘You wanted some information about the bomb threats?’

‘Yes.’

Her voice was so weak, his so decisive.

‘I don’t really know what to say. It’s a bit chaotic around here at the moment. Bombs all over the city, for God’s sake.’

The line crackled; it sounded as if he was outdoors, in a windy spot somewhere. She looked out of the window. The usual weather for this time of year: rain. And yet, just hearing his voice made her feel safe. If Alex was dealing with the bomb threats, then things were bound to turn out okay.

‘And what about parliament?’

‘We can’t be sure yet, but it’s possible that someone might have made the threats in order to keep us busy elsewhere while they attack the parliament building.’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘Exactly. If that’s the plan, then I have to say we’re facing a dangerous scenario.’

Fredrika looked at her screen.

‘This will be grist to the mill of the anti-foreigner brigade – the debate has just been cancelled.’

‘It hasn’t been cancelled,’ Alex said. ‘But it might be postponed. The Speaker was furious when Säpo spoke to him. He insisted the debate must go ahead tomorrow, at any price. The cost of cancelling would be incalculable.’

The Speaker was best known for two things: his quick temper and his warmth. Fredrika didn’t know anyone who disliked him, regardless of which party they belonged to.

‘I have to go,’ Alex said.

‘Call me if… anything happens. Or if…’

She heard a sharp intake of breath at the other end of the line.

‘Are you missing us? The police, I mean?’

Was she?

‘No, no, I’m really happy here in the Justice Department. Up to my ears in papers and reports. Just what I like.’

‘I thought we’d decided that you were like the rest of us, someone who wanted to be out in the field.’

When she didn’t reply, Alex said, ‘Take care of yourself; I’ll speak to you soon.’

He ended the call, and Fredrika put down her phone. It was ten to five. The first bomb would soon explode.

The rain made Eden Lundell’s hair curl and extinguished her cigarette. Bloody weather. She threw away the cigarette and walked into the foyer of the parliament building.

‘I’m sorry, you can’t come in here,’ said the uniformed police officer on the door.

Eden took out her ID and he stepped aside. The other officers followed her with their eyes as she swept past. Sebastian had looked at her as if she was crazy when she told him where she was going.

‘You’re the boss,’ he said. ‘You’re not expected to go out on this kind of thing.’

He meant well, and his tone of voice was the one Eden had noticed other parents using when they talked to their children. She herself had always spoken to her children the same way she spoke to everyone else – as if they were adults.

‘I couldn’t care less what people expect.’

Sebastian started to look annoyed.

‘If you’re going out, you should at least have someone with you. One of my analysts, for example.’

Eden had been unable to hide her contempt for his suggestion.

‘You mean one of your so-called Arabists?’

She could have bitten her tongue, but the words were already out. And Sebastian, who of course was loyal to his colleagues, had hit the roof.

‘You have absolutely no right to say such a thing! I really don’t know…’

‘Correct,’ Eden said, raising her voice. ‘You don’t know anything. And that really doesn’t matter, Sebastian. But in that case, you have to let those of us with the necessary experience go out and do the job properly. I have to know what I’m talking about when I see GD later.’

It had been an unnecessary confrontation. Eden worked well with Sebastian, and yet she had felt it necessary to trample all over him and his analysts. So-called Arabists. By that she meant those who started their CV with the claim that they had studied Arabic for several years, and yet were incapable of running a simple meeting with Arab speakers without the assistance of an interpreter. That had nothing to do with their analytical skills, of course. Generally speaking, Sebastian’s team were highly qualified. By no means all of them had studied Arabic, and those who had didn’t do so in order to learn to communicate in the language. Shit. She would definitely have to apologise later. If Sebastian took the matter further, it would look bad.

The argument went out of her mind. She had to focus on parliament now.

It struck her that the Swedish parliament was housed in a very boring building. Not like their British or French counterparts.

Or the Israeli parliament.

The Knesset in Jerusalem was a joy in its simplicity, a reminder of how young the Israeli state was, and yet what a long history it had. If her husband Mikael had got his way, he and Eden would have moved there along with her parents. But Eden couldn’t think of anywhere she would be less happy to bring up her children, and that clinched the argument. If the Jewish member of the family didn’t want to emigrate, then everyone else stayed at home too.

She soon spotted Alex. He was talking to a man whom Eden assumed was a police officer. Alex raised a hand in greeting when he saw her.

‘So you couldn’t stay away either?’ she said.

Alex looked embarrassed.

‘I like to keep an eye on things.’

‘Me too. Have they found anything?’

‘Nothing. But they’ve only just started.’

Eden gazed around. Police everywhere. No doubt the situation was exactly the same at the Central Station and the Royal Library. And at Åhlén’s and Rosenbad.

It was a strange choice of locations.

Mikael called, wanting to know where she was.

‘What’s going on?’ he said.

The priest calling his private source for advice. The thought appealed to Eden.

‘We don’t know,’ she said, turning away from Alex.

‘Should I be worried?’

‘What? No, no. Mikael, this is really nothing to worry about.’

‘Are you sure? I’ve been watching the news. It’s crazy out there.’

Eden didn’t know what he was talking about. She told him she had to go, and ended the call.

‘My husband,’ she said briefly to Alex, who hadn’t asked who the call was from.

‘Is he a police officer too?’

‘A priest.’

Alex looked as if he was about to burst out laughing, but he managed to control himself.

‘I know,’ Eden said. ‘I don’t look like someone who’s married to a priest.’

She tugged at her wet hair, trying to make it lie down. A uniformed officer came over to them.

‘There are huge numbers of people out on the streets.’

So that was what Mikael had meant.

‘Doing what?’

‘Well, there are all the people we’ve turned out of the various locations, plus the rubberneckers who’ve come to see what’s going on.’

Eden could feel her frustration growing. Four bomb threats, plus the evacuation of parliament just to be on the safe side. One word passed through her mind: idiotic. This was an idiotic exercise.

‘This is nothing,’ she said firmly to Alex. ‘It’s a bluff. The bomb threats, parliament, the whole thing. This is just someone who wants to wind us up. Cause havoc. And take a look around. It’s hard to say that he or she hasn’t succeeded.’

Alex scratched his head.

‘It’s too soon to be sure that it’s just a bluff. We need to hold our nerve.’

Eden looked at her watch.

‘It’s gone five o’clock, and evidently no bomb has gone off so far. Nothing is going to happen at five fifteen or five thirty either,’ she said.

‘Let’s wait and see,’ Alex replied.

If Eden was right, Stockholm would still be intact when the hands on the clock had passed five forty-five.

8 19:10

The crisis came and went. By six o’clock, no bombs had gone off, and as far as parliament was concerned, Säpo were continuing to search the building, but didn’t expect to find anything. The Speaker announced that the debate on immigration and integration would take place as planned the following morning.

The Central Station and Åhlén’s department store opened their doors to the public just after seven and, at about the same time, it was decided that employees at the Royal Library and Rosenbad could return to their offices if they needed to make up the working hours they had lost.

Fredrika Bergman stayed on in the Foreign Office building on Fredsgatan after the end of the working day; she didn’t want to go home until the issue of the bomb threats was resolved.

Then suddenly the danger was past. The story of the mysterious bomb threats lived on in news bulletins all over the country, but nowhere else. Fredrika picked up her jacket and bag and went home.

That night she lay awake in the darkened bedroom, gazing at Spencer.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked without lifting his head from the pillow.

‘Nothing. I’m just happy to see you.’

She sensed a smile on his face.

‘Aha.’

Was he looking older these days? She edged closer. Sometimes she thought she could see new lines and wrinkles on his face every day, and that made her panic. She didn’t want Spencer to age any more quickly than he had done over the past few years. He was twenty-five years older than her; she couldn’t bear it if the gap grew any wider.

She caressed his forehead, saw him close his eyes. He would fall asleep at any moment, as he always did when they had made love even though it was very late. There had been a time in their lives when their relationship couldn’t be exposed to the light of day; they had been able to meet only in the evenings and at night. In those days it was never too late for sex, and they were never too tired.

But now…

After two children and a period of turbulence caused by Spencer’s separation from his wife, plus the chaos that followed when he was falsely accused of raping a student, things were very different. Most of the time they were both perfectly happy sitting side by side on the sofa and falling asleep in front of some mindless TV programme.

It was hard to admit it but, unfortunately, Spencer wasn’t the only one who had aged. For example, Fredrika couldn’t remember the last time she had been really drunk. Was it at a deadly boring reception that one of Spencer’s colleagues had given in New York? She couldn’t remember.

‘What are you thinking about?’ Spencer asked.

‘The last time I was drunk.’

He opened his eyes. ‘Okay…’

‘Have we got old and boring?’

‘I don’t think we’ll ever be boring, but I’m afraid we’re never going to be younger either.’

Fredrika burst out laughing.

‘You’re a wise man, Spencer.’

‘Indeed I am.’

He reached out and pulled her close, hugging her tightly.

I will love you forever.

Fredrika found his hand, kissed his fingers. Her lips brushed against the ring he had received when he gained his doctorate; he wore it next to his wedding ring. She had been unable to hold back the tears when they got married. During all the years they had been lovers, she had never once thought that they would be a proper couple. Not once. And now he was both the father of her children and her husband. The only issue that remained was their surname. Fredrika flatly refused to take the name Lagergren, and of course the conservative Spencer didn’t want to be called Bergman.

‘What does it matter what you’re called?’ Spencer had said. ‘Can’t you just drop your maiden name?’

‘Darling Spencer, you could just as easily drop your name!’

At that point the discussion usually came to an end, and they decided it didn’t matter what they were called.

After all, we share everything else.

Fredrika stroked Spencer’s wedding ring, and suddenly realised she was thinking about Eden Lundell. For some reason she had been surprised to discover that Eden was married. It didn’t fit in with her persona, which was hard and uncompromising. Almost as if she ate small children for breakfast, as the Secretary of State had said when they were leaving the conference room.

‘You don’t fuck with Swedish democracy,’ Eden had said. That was no doubt true, but was that really what Zakaria Khelifi had been doing? There was no better way of fucking with democracy than by making people afraid, Fredrika knew that much. It frightened her that following various terror attacks, people were starting to become less critical of laws that went against the principle of integrity. It was almost as if integrity was a luxury that could be afforded only under certain circumstances.

No doubt, Eden had a high level of integrity. Eden, who had honey-coloured hair and smelled of cigarette smoke. Eden, who had the longest legs Fredrika had ever seen, and who looked as if she had just been to war, in spite of the fact that she was wearing a skirt suit.

Some crimes could not be expiated. And it would be both stupid and dangerous to take unnecessary risks when both Säpo and the government had a legal obligation to protect the country’s security. The decision on the case of Zakaria Khelifi had been formally approved at six o’clock, and a few hours later, Säpo would have picked him up. By now he would be sitting in a custody cell.

Fredrika had never dealt with so-called security issues before, nor had she come across the term when she was working for the police. Eden Lundell had given her their cards when they left, but Fredrika didn’t feel comfortable calling any of them. Particularly Eden.

When Spencer had fallen asleep, Fredrika picked up a handout on security issues that a colleague had put together. It confirmed what she had already read on Säpo’s website:

It was Säpo’s job to ensure that Sweden didn’t become a refuge for individuals who could constitute a danger to the country’s security. It was their role to look at the background, contacts and activities of a foreign national – in Sweden or overseas – and to determine if the individual in question could pose a security risk. The most common grounds for suspicion were linked to terrorism, but they could also involve espionage on the part of refugees. The organisation looked to the future; they were concerned not only with who did or did not constitute a threat, but also who might possibly constitute a threat. However they were supposed to know that…

Fredrika couldn’t shake off a feeling of unease. Just a few hours ago, inner-city Stockholm had been paralysed by false bomb threats delivered over the phone. Threats that coincided with the major immigration debate in parliament. Which in turn coincided with the conviction of two young men for preparing to commit an act of terrorism, with severe sentences being handed down.

There is absolutely no way that this has all happened by chance, Fredrika thought.

Every fibre of her being was telling her that something was wrong.

The bomb threats were a smokescreen. Anything else was out of the question. But what could they expect instead?

9 21:35

It was nine thirty by the time Eden Lundell smoked her last cigarette of the day. She had just got home from work and had a quick puff, hidden behind the garage wall. If the neighbours saw her, they would think she’d started drinking in secret, not that she couldn’t stand Mikael going on about how upset he was that she was still smoking.

Just before she left the office she had had a call from Alex Recht, who had heard from one of his subordinates: he had found out where the bomb threats had been made from.

‘All the phones were linked to masts close to Arlanda. The last call was definitely made from inside the airport complex itself.’

Eden walked towards the house. Now they had a location, which meant that the answer to the questions who? and why? couldn’t be far away.

The windows at the front of the house were in darkness when Eden put her key in the lock. She glanced around instinctively before she closed the door behind her, double-locked it and set the alarm. She just couldn’t understand people who didn’t take care of their own home, their own safety.

She heard Mikael’s footsteps coming down the stairs as she was taking off her coat. It smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. Shit. She quickly walked towards him, wanting to get away from the treacherous aroma.

She held her breath as he kissed her cheek, but it didn’t quite work. Her hair smelled of smoke as well.

‘Have you been smoking?’

‘Yes.’

No point in lying. Next time she would sit on the step instead of hiding behind the garage. Easier all round.

‘Can’t you pack it in?’

‘No. Any food left?’

‘It’s on the draining board, it just needs heating up.’

She went into the kitchen with Mikael following behind. She avoided looking at him. She was late and she stank of smoke. He was going to tell her that he’d been worried, that she should have called, that she couldn’t keep working so late. That she ought to think of her daughters.

‘You could have called.’

‘I did.’

‘You said you’d be home by seven.’

‘But you knew I had to deal with the bomb threats.’

‘Of course I did. But you must call me, Eden. Keep me informed.’

Must I?

She took out a plate, cutlery and a glass. Mikael had made lasagne. The children’s favourite. And hers. He came and stood beside her, so close that she had to look up and meet his eyes.

‘You can’t carry on like this.’

‘Give me a break, Mikael. I’ve only just started a new job.’

‘You’ve been there for months. You were just the same when you worked for the National Bureau of Investigation.’

She didn’t answer.

‘The girls were asking about you earlier on. Saba was crying. She wants you to be at home sometimes, to say goodnight before they go to sleep. Like other mummies.’

Eden felt the colour rising in her cheeks.

‘Like other mummies? Would we even be having this discussion if I was a man?’

‘Too bloody right we would.’

How many times had she seen Mikael really angry? Not very many. Very few, in fact. And their relationship had even survived the move from Britain to Sweden, and the birth of twins.

But he was angry now. Furious. Almost more furious than the time when… Eden didn’t want to go there. She had sinned once. A serious transgression. If Mikael hadn’t been a priest, she was sure he would have left her.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. But there’s some really major stuff going on at work right now, which means I find it bloody hard to tell myself I have to go home early just because a child is crying.’

‘Not a child, Eden. Your child.’

‘Okay, but at the end of the day, from a wider perspective, it’s a very minor matter. The girls have to learn that they’re not the most important thing in the world for everyone.’

She heard Mikael take a deep breath.

‘I don’t think they want everyone’s attention. Yours would be enough.’

She wanted to protest, tell him that the world didn’t work that way, but she was too tired to argue and too hungry to waste any more time on bickering.

In silence she slid the plate of food into the microwave and waited for it to heat up.

‘And how was your day?’ she asked her husband.

‘Good. I had my first meeting with a group preparing for confirmation; they were like all the rest, I suppose. Not very interested on the surface, but deep down they’re very confused.’

A confirmation group. Eden liked hearing about that kind of thing. Mikael’s confirmation group formed a nice counterbalance to her terrorists. He carried on talking as she ate. She didn’t tell him anything about how she had spent her day. She had noticed that Mikael was following the trial on the news, but fortunately he hadn’t asked her any questions. Mikael was a priest; he wouldn’t understand why someone like Zakaria Khelifi had to be deported.

Eden sat at the table with her plate in front of her, chewing and swallowing. Everything had gone smoothly. Zakaria Khelifi had been taken into custody, and in just over a week he would be on his way home to Algeria, escorted by the Swedish police.

Everything was as it should be. Justice had been done.

The house was silent. Diana was asleep, and Alex Recht was alone in his office. The intensity of his working day had made it impossible to sleep; he felt wide awake. Diana’s lovely smile shone out at him from a photograph on his desk.

The children had accepted Diana right away. His daughter had wept when he finally managed to come out with the fact that he had met someone.

‘I’m really, really happy for you,’ she had said.

Alex got a lump in his throat when he remembered her words. And he still felt like crying when he thought about Lena, the mother of his children, the woman with whom he had thought he would spend the rest of his life. But we don’t always get what we want. Things don’t always turn out the way we expect. He knew that now, and he had to fight to stop himself from being destroyed by the fear of losing everything all over again. Lena was still with him. In a photograph with the children. Taken during the last summer of her life.

If you just glanced at the picture, you couldn’t see that anything was wrong. You didn’t notice Lena’s tired eyes, or how much weight she had lost. And you didn’t see the shadow of fear on the face of both his son and daughter. His daughter was smiling as usual, but Alex knew what she looked like when she was happy, and what she looked like when she wasn’t. In the photograph, she looked positively devastated.

And his son. With his hair standing on end as if he was a teenager, and an expression so angry that it made Alex shudder. They had never been able to communicate, not without falling out and starting to yell at one another. At one time, Alex had thought he would be closer to his son than his daughter, but it turned out he was wrong.

Alex focused on his job instead. None of the bomb threats had been genuine. No one had been hurt. And yet he still felt on edge.

Four bomb threats. Not one, not two, not three, but four. Aimed at different locations in inner-city Stockholm that took a huge amount of resources to evacuate and search. They had thought it might be an attempt to divert their attention from something much worse, but that hadn’t happened either. The whole thing had begun and ended with four bomb threats, made by someone in the vicinity of Arlanda, using voice distortion.

Arlanda. What the hell was the link between the bomb threats and the country’s biggest airport?