Hostage (21 page)

‘Do you think that the group behind this, or elements of that group, could be in Germany?’

‘We don’t know. But obviously, Germany is of interest under the circumstances, even if we can’t see a direct link to the rest of the case at this stage.’

Eden told them about Zakaria’s German contacts; the CIA agents listened and made notes.

‘I’ll get in touch with the Germans straight after this meeting,’ Eden said.

‘Of course. Unless they get hold of you first. Now that the hijacking is public knowledge, they will probably want to talk to you about the email.’

Eden thought so too. One of the Americans summarised:

‘So an unknown person has stated that Karim is involved in the hijacking. Karim has met Zakaria Khelifi in the past. Zakaria Khelifi has been in contact with individuals in
Germany.’

Eden moved on:

‘And Tennyson Cottage? How does that fit into all this?’

It happened so fast that she almost missed it, but she just noticed the men on the other side of the table exchange glances before replying.

‘We don’t know.’

‘No? No one with a link to Sweden – or Germany – has been held there?’

‘No.’

Closed faces told Eden that she wasn’t going to get any further with Tennyson Cottage.

‘Tell us more about Zakaria Khelifi,’ one of the Americans said.

But Eden had reached her limit when it came to things she was prepared to discuss with the CIA. Karim Sassi was obviously of interest to both sides, but if they weren’t going to talk about
Tennyson Cottage, then Eden wasn’t going to talk about Zakaria. Then she remembered that she had one more card to play.

‘I mentioned that we found a photograph of Zakaria Khelifi and Karim Sassi at Karim’s house.’

The men opposite straightened up, eager to listen carefully to what she had to say.

‘Did I tell you that we found it inside a book by Alfred Lord Tennyson?’

That hit the mark. The Americans were lost for words, and that was all Eden needed to know. She definitely had something they wanted.

‘But I’m sure that’s just a bizarre coincidence, isn’t it?’

The fish was hooked; all she had to do was reel it in.

‘I doubt it,’ one of the Americans said.

‘Really?’

She played it cool, leaning back on her chair with her legs crossed. She might have been imagining things, but she thought her questions about Tennyson were making them nervous.

What is it you’re not telling me?

‘I swear we have nothing that explains why Tennyson Cottage has cropped up in the middle of this mess.’

She didn’t believe him. Once, and only once, Eden had failed to expose a liar when she was standing face to face with him. It had been an expensive mistake, and one she would not be making
again. Ever.

‘You don’t have anything on Karim Sassi that you’re keeping quiet about? Something that explains his interest in Tennyson?’

‘No, no and no again. What about you? Did you find anything related to Tennyson Cottage?’

‘No.’

She would have lied if necessary. She was a better player than them. One of the best in her field, in fact. Her boss back in the UK had told her that this particular quality would take her
further than any other.

He had been right. It had saved her marriage, among other things.

Have you met someone else, Eden? Have you?

You’re the only one for me, Mikael. I swear.

They had reached an impasse. If the CIA wanted to know more, Eden would be happy to meet them at any time of the day or night, as long as they promised to share information of their own. She
thought she had made her point, loud and clear.

She brought the meeting to an end and took out her phone to call someone to escort her guests out of the building. But first she turned to her American colleagues.

‘I need lists of personal details,’ she said.

‘What lists?’

‘Lists of those who have been held in Tennyson Cottage. I want to run them against our Swedish records to see if I can find a link to Khelifi.’

She knew they would refuse, but wanted to ask the question anyway.

‘You must realise that’s an unreasonable request.’

‘Then at least I want the names of those who’ve been released – surely there must be a few?’

‘Once again, you have to trust us. There is no link between Khelifi and Tennyson Cottage.’

Eden didn’t reply. It was obvious that there had to be some common denominator between Khelifi and Tennyson. The only question was whether they would find it in time to avert a
catastrophe. Someone was sitting on the truth, and that person had to start talking. Time was running out fast.

T
he media coverage was fragmented. It was as if the journalists didn’t know what to focus on. The previous day’s bomb threats. The
hijacking. Or the parliamentary debate on immigration and integration. Buster Hansson, General Director of Säpo, couldn’t help thinking that if it hadn’t been for the guilty
verdicts in the terrorist cases, along with everything else that had happened in the last two days, the debate wouldn’t have attracted half as much attention. He had avoided watching the live
broadcast from the chamber. The far right had a following wind. They were becoming increasingly daring in the way they spoke and in the position they adopted, and were making increasingly bold
demands when it came to the reduction, if not the complete cessation, of immigration. And then of course they referred to the acts of terrorism that had shaken Scandinavia, and asked: ‘Is
this the way we want things to be?’

Buster Hansson has always been surprised that people couldn’t count. He had made this discovery at an early stage in his career. Immigrants were indisputably over-represented in the crime
statistics. There was in fact a clear correlation between being part of a less privileged stratum of society, and being over-represented in the crime statistics. Immigrants who lived in the
Östermalm district of Stockholm featured no more heavily than people who had not been born overseas, or whose parents fell into that category. Therefore, the problem was not that immigrants
were immigrants, but that regardless of an immigrant’s background, as soon as they arrived in Sweden, they were banished to the periphery of society. And once they ended up there, it was
easier to go astray in life.

During his time as Secretary of State, Buster had given countless lectures on the subject. Those on the periphery of society were more likely to turn to crime than those who lived a more
comfortable life. And since immigrants were more over-represented than Swedes in the lowest stratum of society, then . . . Buster didn’t have the strength to follow the chain of thought
through to its conclusion; he had been there far too often, without ever coming up with anything new. There could be only one conclusion – immigration itself was not harmful. What was harmful
was failing to give people any hope for the future.

However, he was by no means as certain that the international terrorism that had now reached Scandinavia could be explained in the same way. The men who had recently been convicted were young
and driven, and had made a living running their own businesses. They earned good money, and had lived in Sweden all their lives. Their parents had been part of the group of Swedes born overseas who
had made a great success of their life in Sweden. So the frustration must come from a different source other than the usual criminality.

Eden Lundell had often asked where all this anger came from, and Buster thought it was a good question. How come those with their origins in the Levant, for example, wanted to commit acts of
terrorism in Europe because European soldiers were fighting in Afghanistan? And even if you accepted that as an explanation, how could anyone convince themselves that it was okay to carry out a
suicide bombing on a street full of civilians who have never set foot in Afghanistan, and who probably didn’t even have an opinion on the subject?

To Buster it was important not to mix up understanding an incident and justifying it. If he didn’t have the courage to comprehend what might explain a particular action, then he was doomed
to fail in his task.

Ensuring the safety of Sweden was not the same as keeping Sweden Swedish. Whatever the hell ‘Swedish’ was supposed to mean.

His musings were interrupted by the arrival of Henrik Theander, head of counter-espionage.

‘You said it was urgent,’ Henrik said as he sat down.

Buster hesitated briefly, then decided he had no choice – he couldn’t just ignore what he had been told about Eden by MI5. He quickly summarised the information he had received from
his British colleague.

‘Bloody hell,’ Henrik said when Buster had finished.

Buster could see that Henrik was badly shaken. It was obvious that something had to be done. But what?

‘What do we really think about all this?’ Henrik Theander asked. ‘Do we believe Eden is an Israeli spy?’

Buster spread his arms wide.

‘She was always a bit too good to be true, wasn’t she?’

‘What’s the situation with this Mossad agent who has entered the country?’

‘I’d like you to put him under surveillance right away,’ Buster said. ‘He’s staying at the Diplomat Hotel. If he approaches Eden, we need to know about
it.’

‘No problem.’

‘And I want you to take over this case with immediate effect,’ Buster said.

It was hard to think of a worse time to expose the head of the counter-terrorism unit as a spy for a foreign power. On the other hand, it was a good thing that Eden had been working for
Säpo for only a few months.

Henrik gave a humourless laugh.

‘That must be some kind of record,’ he said. ‘I mean, Eden has only just started.’

‘I don’t understand what the Brits were thinking,’ Buster said. ‘Letting us recruit a potentially lethal woman to one of the most sensitive posts in the country.
That’s seriously poor judgement.’

‘True, but we don’t know if their assumptions are correct.’

‘No, and we have to cling onto that, and hope she isn’t a spy. Hope the Brits got rid of their strongest card for no reason.’

‘But didn’t you say that she was actually fired for some other reason, some mistake she made?’

‘Exactly,’ Buster said. ‘But he refused to tell me anything whatsoever about that.’

He had decided to inform no one except the head of counter-espionage. One or two investigators within the unit would probably have to be brought in, but Buster was happy to leave that up to
Henrik.

‘Should we pull her out right away? As a preventative measure?’

‘I’ve thought about that, but Eden would get suspicious if we did something like that. When it comes down to it she prefers working in the field, close to the action. She actually
made that a condition when we recruited her; she wasn’t prepared to sit in meetings and deal with admin all the time.’

‘Which is also worth noting,’ Henrik said. ‘In the light of what we’ve just been told, I’m not at all happy that she wants to be “close to the
action”.’

Buster was supposed to be able to handle this kind of problem with a high degree of professionalism. But to be honest, he wasn’t at all sure what to do. He almost wished the Brits
hadn’t told him anything about it.

‘By the way, how’s it going with the hijacking?’ Henrik asked. ‘Are you getting anywhere?’

Buster suppressed a sigh.

‘Eden’s running the whole thing. She and Sebastian are due to report back to me as soon as they know more.’

Henrik crossed his legs.

‘In that case, let’s hope Eden can sort this out.’

‘Absolutely,’ Buster replied.‘Anything other than total success is unthinkable.’

Deep down, he was wondering whether in this particular respect it was an advantage or a disadvantage if the head of counter-terrorism was a Mossad agent.

N
ot so very long ago, Fredrika Bergman’s civilian background had made it difficult for her to fit in with the police. Her colleagues had
questioned the fact that she lacked police training, and suggested that she didn’t have the necessary qualities to bring to the table. She had called their bluff and won the game. The idea
that an investigator had to look a certain way was no more than a myth. The
assignment
itself was the important thing. The assignment had to come first. If only people would follow that
basic principle, then everything would be so much easier.

Sitting in the car with Alex on the way to see Karim Sassi’s mother, Fredrika thought that Eden Lundell and her colleagues were facing an undertaking which was unimaginably more
difficult.

Protecting national security.

Every failure led to an outcry. The Swedish people demanded zero tolerance; no crime that seriously threatened the country’s safety should be committed under any circumstances. The thought
of what it would mean if the same demands were made of the section of the police authority where she had worked made her head spin.

No bank robberies.

No rapes.

No murders.

A Technicolor dream. Completely unattainable. A total absence of criminality would require such an oppressive police force that no one would want to go on living.

After the terrorist attack in Stockholm in 2010, nothing had frightened Fredrika more than the immediate calls for Säpo and the government to take decisive action against terrorism.

Decisive action.

With his back to the wall, the General Director of Säpo had tried to get people to understand what they were asking for. A controlled society where everything that was written on Facebook
was scrutinised, and where the private sphere virtually ceased to exist. A society in which Säpo would need to increase by several thousand per cent in order to have the capacity to deal with
all the information coming in. Fredrika thought he had won that debate; he had done a good job. People agreed with him – no thank you, they didn’t want a controlled society.

Someone had mentioned the miasma of intelligence. After only a few hours working with Säpo, Fredrika thought she was beginning to understand what that meant. All those little snippets of
information flying around, just waiting to be picked up by a security or intelligence service, which in turn wanted to know whether that particular piece of information could be the one that made
the difference, the one that turned a defeat into a success.