To the Top of the Mountain

47

‘IT’S NOT GOING to be cancelled,’ said Gunnar Nyberg, leaning back.

They were sitting under the glow of paraffin lamps and candles in the old nineteenth-century Uppland cottage. In front of them were the modern laptop computers, connected to the Internet and the central police computer via mobile phones.

‘How do you know that?’ asked Ludvig Johnsson, stroking his bald head.

‘Internal message,’ said Nyberg, pointing at the screen. ‘The National Police Commissioner, the head of CID, the Minister for Justice, the Prime Minister, the head of the Secret Service and Mörner were in meetings late into the night. It can’t happen. The loss of prestige would be too big. And there’s international pressure. Police forces from across the world would be a laughing stock. If we can’t even protect ourselves, how are we supposed to be able to protect others? There’s a risk it’d be a deathblow to the police force as we know it.’

‘What kind of death blow will it be when it goes off, then?’

‘Mmm… The reasoning goes like this: it can’t go off. It’s that simple, it can’t go off. An argument rooted in practical reasoning.’

Ludvig Johnsson sat motionless. He closed his eyes. He didn’t know if he could really be held responsible for this, too. He didn’t care. It was all his fault, he knew that, and now things were set to escalate dramatically.

He came to a decision.

‘Another beer?’ he asked, getting to his feet. His running clothes were plastered to his skin.

‘Why not?’ said Nyberg. ‘We’re not getting anywhere. We’re stuck. Hell, I thought we’d find an opening somewhere, but it’s not working. Damn it, it’s not working. Fuck.’

Johnsson came back, placing a can of beer in front of him. It was open. Johnsson opened his with a hiss and took a couple of big gulps. Nyberg emptied half of his in one go.

‘For God’s sake, Ludvig,’ he said. ‘Lindberg broke Nedic. Nedic had his tongue blown out. Isn’t there a clue in that, somewhere?’

Ludvig Johnsson stood motionless. He looked out into nothingness, shaking his head slowly.

‘There’s no solution,’ he said.

‘What time is it?’ asked Nyberg.

Johnsson took another gulp and looked at his watch.

‘Almost six. Six in the morning, Saturday the seventeenth of July. Nine hours left until the opening.’

Ludvig Johnsson was no longer motionless. Slowly but surely, he started to spin. Eventually, he was spinning through the room. And the room began to fold up like a book.

Nyberg slumped forward over the ill-placed plastic table. He was face down, and the room continued to fold in on itself, time and time again, until only a tiny square was left in the middle of all the blackness.

‘I’m sorry, Gunnar,’ said Ludvig Johnsson’s voice from somewhere far away. ‘I have to clean up on my own now. There’s no other way.’

And just like that, the little square disappeared.

Though Agne “Bullet” Kullberg looked worn out, his gaze was crystal clear. He wouldn’t let himself be duped a second time. He had seen through their tricks now, and he had one single strategy: to keep his mouth shut. To not open his mouth even once.

It had worked for almost a day. It was eleven o’clock, and Paul Hjelm could feel the hopelessness rising.

There were four hours left until the opening of the World Police and Fire Games in Stockholm Stadium.

The past twenty-four hours had been strange. No one had slept. Söderstedt and Norlander had managed to find Petrovic’s parents. They lived in Germany, and through them, they managed to find a brother in trouble with the law. They put together a fake deportation order to Serbia for the brother, and Hjelm and Chavez took it to Petrovic in Tumba. Lars Viksjö looked as though he had been sleeping in his clothes for the past six months.

‘We’ve proved that your brother’s Serbian and should be sent back to Belgrade,’ said Hjelm.

Petrovic stared at them, his eyes flitting from Hjelm to Chavez, Chavez to Hjelm.

Then he laughed. ‘My brother’s an idiot,’ he said.

And so another attempt went down the drain. Petrovic didn’t say another word. He was extremely steadfast. They went back to prison and the even more silent Bullet. It was starting to feel uncomfortable.

Sara Svenhagen sent a message from Trollhättan, saying that she had coaxed three previously unknown Stockholm addresses out of Lindberg’s parents and ex-wife. Hultin and Norlander were talking to people who didn’t understand a thing, who had never heard of Niklas Lindberg, and who were openly unpleasant. These were two men who didn’t hesitate to get tough when they needed to, but that didn’t get them very far. The unpleasant people really did know nothing.

Söderstedt came up with a vague new idea for Petrovic. He found a web page for an international fascist organisation which seemed unexpectedly official. What if they threatened to say that Petrovic had squealed to the police? Hjelm and Chavez took the threat to Petrovic. He did seem slightly worried. But not enough. They tried everything they could think of, but it didn’t help. He remained silent.

Huge numbers of policemen were searching the stadium and the surrounding area. Lindberg wouldn’t dare be inside the stadium when the bomb went off. Still, he had to be somewhere with a view of it. This meant going to every building with a view into the stadium in Östermalm. There were a few of them, and Operation Door Knocking was in full swing. So far, they had been given a few tips, but nothing hot. People didn’t seem to like their neighbours.

The night passed. Hjelm and Chavez pressed Bullet again and again. It was hopeless. He wouldn’t talk.

They began to seriously discuss more illegal methods. Torture was on the table for a while. It was a deeply uncomfortable moment, although they didn’t realise this until afterwards. As though democracy had suddenly gone up in smoke. As though the Swedish flag had suddenly gone up with a bang.

Eventually, it was eleven o’clock. They were staring at one another. Bullet on the one side, Hjelm and Chavez on the other.

Deadlock.

‘Four hours left,’ Hjelm said stubbornly. ‘If an attack on Stockholm Stadium takes place, you’ll never see daylight again, other than through bars. It’ll be a long training stretch.’

Bullet peered at them.

‘Are you ready to throw your whole life away for this stupid attack?’ Chavez asked, equally stubbornly. ‘Is it really worth it, just to kill a few firemen from Venezuela?’

Bullet stared straight ahead.

‘Fucking hell!’ Chavez shouted, storming noisily out of Bullet’s cell.

Hjelm remained. His mobile was ringing.

‘One last chance,’ Hultin said in his ear. ‘One of those unpleasant people got in touch. She was talking about a possible girlfriend, Lindberg’s, in Gnesta. Are you two coming?’

‘Yes,’ said Hjelm without hesitation.

He called for the guard and made sure that the door was locked on Agne “Bullet” Kullberg. The guard was a faithful old servant, shuffling off back to his desk out at the entrance to the station’s cells. He watched Hjelm disappear. The whole night, he thought to himself, shaking his head. Don’t you have a life, boys? Don’t you have families? Friends? Look at me, I work nine to five and I’m doing fine. What’s the use of wearing yourselves out like this? Does it make you happier?

After a few minutes, a man walked up to his desk, held up his police ID and said: ‘Agne Kullberg, please.’

The guard shook his head and said: ‘You boys never give up, do you? Sign here, Detective Superintendent.’

He followed the man along the corridors, letting him into Agne Kullberg’s cell. A sought-after man.

The guard’s eyes followed the man for a few seconds. He had just noticed the smell of old, ingrained sweat. Couldn’t he at least have taken a shower first? And changed out of those old running clothes?

The guard shook his head and returned to the desk where he stood every weekday, nine to five. He had done what was expected of him.

Ludvig Johnsson moved towards Bullet and showed him his ID. Without a word, he stepped closer and pushed a needle into his arm.

Gunnar Nyberg came slowly back to life. A tiny square appeared somewhere and started to unfold, bit by bit, until his entire field of vision had returned. Though it didn’t look the same. His head throbbed violently, and when he tried to get to his feet, all 146 kilos slumped back into the plastic chair with a thud.

The computers had run out of power, their screens jet black. He tried the first of the mobile phones. It had run out, too. There was a hint of life in the second.

As he keyed in Hultin’s number, he tried to make sense of what had happened. He managed to raise his arm, looking at his watch. Christ, he thought. Twenty-five to four. It was all over.

Rather than growing desperate, he tried to think. There was one thing that Ludvig Johnsson had stressed during their attempt at a joint investigation, and one thing only. That Bullet Kullberg was the weak link.

‘Hultin,’ said a voice in his ear.

‘Where are you?’ asked Nyberg, not recognising his own voice. It was a feeling he knew well.

‘Gunnar? Where are you?’

‘Grillby. But to hell with that. This is important.’

‘We’re at the station. We just got back. We’ve been in Gnesta, talking to Lindberg’s girlfriend. They split up six months ago, and had only ever seen one another in Kumla. Didn’t give anything new.’

‘Ludvig’s gone after Bullet. Check.’

‘Oh Jesus,’ said Hultin. ‘Are you coming?’

‘As fast as I can,’ said Nyberg, hanging up.

He tried to get to his feet once again. It went better this time. Though God only knew if he could drive.

The only thing he knew was that he would never see Ludvig Johnsson again.

That was absolutely certain.

Sorrow coursed through him like hot lava.

Hultin, Hjelm and Chavez arrived at the desk by the cells in the police station in record time. The guard looked tired. Not again. Get a life, guys. Yes, Detective Superintendent Ludvig Johnsson had been there. In sweaty jogging clothes. Yes, he’d been in with Kullberg for almost an hour. No, no one had been there since.

They ran down the cell-lined corridor. The guard ran alongside them. It was a long time since his legs had done any running.

He let them in.

Bullet Kullberg was bound to the chair with four leather belts. His face was swollen and bruised, his nails sticking out at unnatural angles from his fingers. His trousers were around his ankles, his genitals black and blue. A strip of silver tape had been stuck over his mouth.

His eyes were closed.

Hultin tore the tape from his mouth. Bullet woke. He looked at them, alarmed.

‘Don’t kill me,’ he said faintly.

Hjelm looked into his eyes. His gaze had changed.

‘He’s been drugged,’ he said.

‘Christ,’ said Chavez.

‘Ludvig seems to have taken it personally,’ said Hultin. ‘OK, hello. Agne. We’re not going to kill you. Take it easy. Just tell us what you told Johnsson. Then we’ll save Lindberg.’

‘You were right,’ said Bullet, looking strangely at Hjelm and Chavez. ‘I was a nerd at school. Shitty Agne. I went by the name Shitty Agne the whole time I was at school. Always Shitty Agne. My name isn’t Agne, you bastards.’

‘What did you tell Ludvig Johnsson?’ asked Hjelm. ‘Come on, Bullet.’

‘I said that there’d never been any parade of girls looking at my hairless dick. Never. But I remember when they tied my hands behind my back with a towel and hit my dick until it was blue. Look how blue it is.’

‘That was Ludvig Johnsson who did that, Bullet,’ said Chavez. ‘No one’s calling you Agne any more.’

‘No,’ Bullet panted. ‘No. My name’s Bullet. I’m the toughest guy you’ll ever meet.’

‘Bullet!’ Hjelm shouted. ‘Focus! Where’s Nicke?’

‘Valhallavägen 88, obviously. What do you think, you arseholes? That’s it.’

They left. Running through the police station.

‘Time?’ asked Hultin.

‘Five past,’ said Chavez.

‘The National Task Force?’ asked Hjelm. ‘Where are they?’

‘The stadium,’ said Hultin, keying in a number. ‘Hello? Task Force? We’ve got an address. Valhallavägen 88. Top floor, probably. It’s vital that he doesn’t get a chance to press the detonator. Everything else is irrelevant.’

‘Let’s go,’ said Hjelm.

He was sitting on the balcony. In his hand lay the miniature calculator, one single red button. He ran his thumb gently down one side of it. All power gathered in a single point. That was how it should be. It was a simplification. People couldn’t cope with democracy. The democratic era had been the bloodiest in the history of mankind. That spoke for itself. A simple, pure way of life. That was all he wanted. But it meant breaking a few eggs.

He looked down towards Stockholm Stadium. A perfect view. They really did have resources. He was impressed, and that didn’t happen too often. Not since February ’86.

The ceremony began. It was a fine summer’s day, but rain clouds loomed in the distance. The weather would soon change.

It really would.

First the music – it was strangely distorted when it reached him. Then the procession. Presumably Sweden would be leading the other countries. The flag would explode. This had been in the works for so long. The flag would be torn to shreds. The proudest thing they had.

He felt a sharp pain in his hand. Like cramp. When he looked down, a wasp was hanging from his thumb. He put the detonator down on the table and squashed the wasp with his middle finger. The pain spread through his hand.

Ironic, he thought, hearing the click.

The click of a gun being taken off safety.

He turned, looking back towards the flat. In the doorway stood a bald man dressed in running clothes. He was pointing a gun at him.

‘I’ve been standing here for fifteen minutes, waiting for you to put that thing down,’ said Ludvig Johnsson.

‘A wasp stung me,’ said Niklas Lindberg.

‘The police force, saved by a wasp. So ironic.’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘Move towards it and I’ll shoot. Come this way, slowly.’

Niklas Lindberg was motionless. His pistol was jammed into the top of his trousers. He wouldn’t have time to grab it. But the detonator? There would have to be a… victim. Posthumous recognition.

He tried. His hand moved quickly.

Ludvig Johnsson emptied the magazine into him. His hand reached the edge of the table but no further. It sank downwards.

Johnsson stood still, breathing heavily.

Hanna, Micke, Stefan – my gift to you.

He went out onto the balcony and carefully, carefully took hold of the little black device with the red button.

Just then, the door burst open. The National Task Force stormed in.

They saw the man on the balcony. In a flash, they saw the detonator in his hand. And they shot him.

They shot so many bullets into him that it would never be possible to count them. His body went limp, and they kept shooting. His body was thrown backwards towards the edge of the balcony, and they kept shooting. They kept shooting even as it floated down through the Stockholm air like a mediocre skydiver, hitting the pavement of Valhallavägen with a dull, inhuman thud.

On the table next to the dead Niklas Lindberg, the detonator lay.

It had fallen red side up.

Down in Stockholm Stadium, the opening ceremony was in full swing.