Lars Kepler 2-book Bundle (109 page)

He then went along the hallway, entered the meeting room through its double doors, and ignited a quick fire. After that, he went to Davida Meyer’s office and was just starting to tell her the reason for his visit when the alarm went off.

For the next twenty-five minutes, Dieter Gramma was tied on his knees with a hand grenade strapped to his chest before he was noticed by the security camera. He probably tried to cry out without dislodging the grenade. The autopsy revealed that he’d broken a blood vessel in his throat and the inside of his mouth was bitten.

The door to the men’s bathroom was opened and a shock grenade was tossed inside over the tiled floor. Instead of a release of shrapnel, as happens with normal grenades, a huge pressure wave slammed through the small room. Dieter Gramma hit his head on the pipe and tiled wall and passed out. A young police officer named Uli Schnieder ran into the room with his weapon drawn. The smoke made it difficult to see so it took the young man a few seconds to realise what stumbling over the trip wire meant.

The handle on the grenade on Dieter Gramma’s chest had been released. The hand grenade stopped at the loop around Dieter Gramma’s neck, slipped down slightly since the man was unconscious, and then exploded with horrible effect.

Joona Linna, Saga Bauer, and Penelope Fernandez are in an armoured police van being driven away from Diplomat City and along Strandvägen and, beside it, the glittering water.

“I knew his face,” Penelope says in a monotone. “I knew he would keep after me and after me until …”

She stops speaking and stares straight ahead.

“… until he killed me,” she finally says.

“Yes,” Saga answers.

Penelope shuts her eyes and lets herself rock with the gentle motion of the police van. They’re passing the remarkable monument to Raoul Wallenberg, which is formed like white-capped waves or Hebrew letters blowing in the wind.

“Who was he? The man who was after me?” Penelope asks.

“He was a professional hit man,” Joona explains. “Also called a problem solver or a
grob
.”

“Neither Europol nor Interpol has anything on him,” Saga says.

“A professional killer,” Penelope says. “So someone had to send for him.”

“Yes,” Saga says. “But any leads back to who did will be well hidden.”

“Raphael Guidi?” Penelope asks softly. “Is he behind this? Or is it Agathe al-Haji?”

“We believe it has to be Raphael Guidi,” Saga says. “It doesn’t make sense for Agathe al-Haji to be behind it. As far as she’s concerned, it wouldn’t matter if she was seen buying ammunition—”

“It’s not a secret what she does,” Joona says.

“So Raphael Guidi sent a hit man, but … what does he really want? Do you know? Is all of this just about the photograph? Really?”

“Perhaps he assumed you were the photographer and a witness—you may have seen or heard something that would implicate him.”

“Does he still think so?”

“Probably.”

“So he’ll just find another hit man?”

“That’s what we’re afraid of,” Saga answers honestly.

“How long will I have police protection? Will I be in hiding for ever?”

“Well,” says Saga, “we’ll have to plan the next steps, but—”

“I’m going to be hunted down until I can’t run any longer,” Penelope says.

They’re driving past NK and see three young people on a sit-in strike outside the elegant department store.

“He won’t give up,” Joona confirms. His voice is serious. “So we will expose this whole deal. Then there won’t be any reason to silence you.”

“We know we probably can’t do much to Raphael Guidi himself,” Saga says. “But here in Sweden—”

“What could you do here?”

“Primarily, we can stop the arms deal,” Saga says. “The container ship can’t leave Gothenburg Harbour without Axel Riessen’s signature.”

“And why wouldn’t he sign?”

“He will never sign it,” Joona says. “He knows what’s going on.”

“That’s good,” whispers Penelope.

“So we stop the deal and arrest Pontus Salman and all the other Swedes involved,” Saga concludes.

After a moment of silence, Penelope says, “I have to call my mother.”

“Here’s my phone,” Saga says.

Penelope takes Saga’s phone, appears to hesitate, and then dials the number.

“Hi, Mamma, it’s me, Penny. I’m okay.”

“Penny, I’m just on my way to the door. I have to get it—”

“Wait, Mamma!” Penelope cries. “Who’s there?”

“I don’t know,” her mother says.

“Are you expecting anyone?”

“No, but—”

“Don’t open it!” Penelope shouts.

Her mother says something indistinguishable as she puts down the phone. Penelope can hear the bell ring again. The door is opened and Penelope can hear voices. She waits helpless, looking wide-eyed at Saga and Joona. There’s some noise on the line and a thud and then her mother’s voice again.

“Are you still there, Penny?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“There’s a woman here looking for you.”

“Looking for me?” Penelope wets her lips. “All right, Mamma, hand over the phone.”

There’s a crackle on the line and then an unfamiliar voice.

“Penelope Fernandez?”

“I’m here,” Penelope says.

“I have to see you.”

“Who are you?” Penelope asks.

“I sent you the photograph.”

“I don’t know anything about a photograph,” Penelope says abruptly.

“Good answer,” the woman says. “We don’t know each other, but I
am
the person who sent that photograph to you.”

Penelope says nothing.

“We must get together as soon as possible,” the woman says. There is tremendous tension in her voice. “I sent you the photograph of four people in a private box at the theatre. I took the photograph secretly on 13 November 2009. One of the four people in the box is Pontus Salman. He’s my husband.”

Pontus Salman’s house is on Roskullsvägen on the island of Lidingö, a Stockholm suburb. A single-family house built in the sixties, it has begun to look its age, although it still shows the craftsmanship so typical of the period. They park the car on the stone pavement leading to the garage and get out of the car. Someone has drawn graffiti on the garage door with chalk: a childish picture of a penis.

They agree that Joona will wait with Penelope in the car while Saga goes to the front door. It’s open, but Saga rings the doorbell, which is in the form of a lion’s head. Three pleasant chimes sound, but then nothing more happens. Saga takes out her Glock and checks her magazine, takes off the safety, and walks into the house.

Much of the house was actually built below ground level. Beyond the entryway, the house opens into a spacious room encompassing both kitchen and dining room. Its tall windows overlook the breathtaking view of the inlet flowing past Lidingö.

Saga prowls through the kitchen to look into empty bedrooms before she makes her way back to a flight of stairs going down. Music comes from a room with a brass label marked R&R. She opens the door and can hear the music more clearly. It’s Verdi’s
La Traviata
with Joan Sutherland.

At the end of the tiled hallway shines the blue glimmer of a lighted pool.

Saga steps softly towards the pool, listening for anything else besides music. She thinks she can hear the padding of bare feet.

She keeps her weapon close to her body and continues on. There is comfortable-looking wicker furniture and some potted palm trees. The air is warm and humid. The odour of chlorine mixed with jasmine gets stronger. She comes to a huge swimming pool made of light blue tiles and with a glass partition facing a garden and the waterway outside. A slim woman of about fifty is next to a bar with a glass of white wine in her hand. She’s wearing a golden swimsuit. She puts her glass down when she sees Saga approach and comes to greet her.

“Hi, I’m Saga Bauer.”

“Which agency?”

“Säpo.”

The woman laughs and leans forward to kiss Saga on each cheek. She then introduces herself as Marie-Louise Salman.

“Have you brought your swimsuit?” Marie-Louise asks on her way back to the bar.

Her long, narrow feet leave prints on the terracotta tiles. Her body is trim, and it appears she works to take good care of it. The way she walks is artificial, as if she is used to having people admire her.

Marie-Louise Salman picks up her glass and turns. She gives Saga a close once-over as if to make sure that Saga is really concentrating on her.

“A glass of Sancerre?” she asks, with her cool, modulated voice.

“No, thank you,” Saga says.

“I swim to keep my body in shape, although I don’t accept as many modeling jobs as I once did. It’s so easy to become ego-fixated in my field. Yes, I’m sure you know all about it. It feels like shit when no one remembers to hurry to light your cigarette any longer.”

Marie-Louise leans forward and whispers theatrically, “I had an affair with that youngest Chippendale dancer. Do you know him? Doesn’t matter, all those guys are gay anyway.”

“I came here to talk about a photograph that you sent—”

“Oh! I knew he couldn’t keep his mouth shut!” she exclaims with exaggerated indignation.

“Who?”

“Jean-Paul Gaultier.”

“The designer?” Saga asks.

“He’s the one, the designer who always wore striped shirts; he had deliciously golden beard stubble and a pouty little mouth. He still hates me. I knew it!”

Saga smiles patiently. She picks up a bathrobe and hands it to Marie-Louise as she notices Marie-Louise is covered in goose bumps.

“I love to freeze,” Marie-Louise says. “It makes me more desirable. At least, that’s what Depardieu said to me last spring … or … I don’t really remember, it might have been that sweetie pie Renaud who said that. Doesn’t matter.”

They hear new footsteps coming along the hall towards the pool. Marie-Louise looks nervous and seems to glance around for a way out.

“Hello?” a woman calls out.

“Saga?” It’s Joona’s voice.

Saga takes a step towards the hallway where she sees Joona and Penelope entering, escorting a woman with dark brown hair expensively cut into a pageboy.

“Marie-Louise,” the woman says with an exasperated smile. “What are you doing here?”

“I just thought I’d come for a swim,” Marie-Louise answers lightly. “Cool off between my legs, you know.”

“You know I wish you’d call ahead.”

“Oh, yes, sorry, I forgot.”

“Marie-Louise is Pontus’s sister, my sister-in-law,” the woman explains. Then she turns to Saga and introduces herself. “Veronique Salman.”

“Saga Bauer from Säpo.”

“Let’s go into the library,” Veronique says, and starts to walk back.

“Can I still swim, as long as I’m already here?” Marie-Louise calls behind them.

“Just not nude!” Veronique replies without looking back.

Saga, Joona, and Penelope follow Veronique through several rooms on this lower level and into the library. It’s a small room with tiny windowpanes of yellow, sienna, and rose. Books are lined up behind glass in bookcases, and comfortable brown leather furniture is placed around an open fireplace. A polished brass samovar dominates a coffee table.

“Please excuse me for having no refreshments, but I’m hurrying to catch a flight in just an hour …”

Veronique looks very tense, and she wipes her hands over her skirt before she continues.

“I must … I have to tell you right away that I will never testify in court. I refuse,” she says, subdued. “If you force me, I will deny everything I’m about to tell you no matter what the consequences.”

She tries to straighten a tilted lampshade, but her fingers tremble so much it ends up just as crooked.

“I’m leaving without Pontus. He won’t be able to follow me,” she says. She looks at the floor. Her mouth twitches and she has to collect herself before she can continue.

“Penelope,” she says, looking at Penelope, “I understand you look down on Pontus as if he were pond scum. But he’s really not a bad person, he really isn’t.”

“I haven’t said—”

“Listen to me, please,” she says. “I just want to say that I love my husband very much, but I … his work … I don’t know what I think about his work. In the beginning I told myself people have always needed weapons to defend themselves. Arms have been traded as long as people have made them. And practically speaking, all countries must be armed for their own defence. But there’s defence and then there’s—”

She walks to the door, jerks it open, looks out, and then closes it again.

“Exporting weapons to fan flames in countries in the middle of a war … you shouldn’t be doing that.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” Penelope whispers.

“I understand my husband is a businessman,” Veronique continues. “Silencia really needs that contract. Sudan is a large country with an uncertain supply of ammunition for their automatic rifles. They use almost exclusively Fabrique Nationale, and Belgium is not sending them any. People keep an eye on Belgium, but since Sweden has never been a colonial power in Africa, we have an unsullied reputation in the region, and so on, and so forth. Pontus saw the possibilities and moved in quickly the minute civil war in Sudan ended. Raphael Guidi put the deal together. They were just about to sign the contract. Everything was ready to go when the arrest warrant for President al-Bashir was released.”

“Then it would break international law,” Saga says.

“Everyone knew that. But Raphael would not cancel the deal. He said only that he would find a new interested party. It took a few months, but then he declared that the army in Kenya would be the recipient for the Sudan arms. Same amount of ammunition, same price, and so on. I tried to talk Pontus out of it. I told him it was too apparent that this ammunition would go to Sudan, but Pontus said Kenya was just making a smart move. It was a good deal for them and they needed the ammunition. I don’t think he believed what he was saying, I really don’t, but he passed the whole thing over to Carl Palmcrona and the ISP. If Palmcrona signs it, it’ll be all right, was Pontus’s explanation and—”