The Sandman

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, and a grey screen is currently showing a diagram illustrating the extent of non-wireless communication traffic across the country’s borders during the past week.

Under discussion are the analytical database of the Signals Intelligence Unit, new search methods and the apparently rapid radicalisation of thirty or so Islamists who are in favour of violence.

‘Mind you, even if al-Shabaab have made extensive use of the al-Qimmah network,’ Saga is saying, brushing her long hair back over her shoulders, ‘I don’t think it will give us much. Obviously we need to carry on, but I still say we should be trying 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 really don’t want 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 as she exits the meeting room with Verner.

Shimmering snow is falling from the sky as they emerge onto Polhemsgatan. It’s extremely cold 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 like a child.

They pass Fleminggatan in silence, walk through the gate to the health centre, across the circular park surrounding the chapel and down the steps towards the ice of Barnhusviken.

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

Verner makes a little gesture with his hands and turns left onto a cycle 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.

After walking a bit further 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 lift.

In the scratched mirror Saga can see snowflakes covering her hair. They’re melting, forming glistening drops of water.

When the creaking lift stops, Verner takes out a key with a plastic card attached, unlocks a door that bears the telltale signs of attempted burglaries, then 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 dustballs on the floor and a forgotten Ikea Allen key.

The toilet flushes and Carlos Eliasson, chief of the National Criminal Investigation Department, comes out. He wipes his hands on his trousers and then shakes hands with Saga and Verner.

‘Let’s go into the kitchen,’ Carlos says. ‘Can I offer you something to drink?’

He gets out a pack of plastic cups and fills them with tap-water, then offers them to Saga and Verner.

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

‘No, but...’

‘I’ve got some throat sweets,’ he says quickly, pulling out a little box of Läkerol.

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

‘Quite a party.’

‘Saga, as you’ve no doubt realised, this is an extremely unofficial meeting,’ Carlos says, then clears his throat.

‘What’s happened?’ Saga asks.

‘Have you heard of Jurek Walter?’

‘No.’

‘Not many people have... and that’s just as well,’ Verner says.