Project Nirvana (28 page)

Jonna heard Miguel breathing into his phone as he followed Borg.

“If he takes the underground, you have to follow him,” she said. “Just keep your distance.”

“No problema,” Miguel retorted. ”My parents lived under the junta in Argentina. Being careful is a family tradition.”

It would have been impossible for Jonna to follow Borg on foot without being recognized, but the photographer’s face was unknown to him.

Fifteen minutes later, Miguel called again. “He’s getting off at Hötorget station.”

“Which exit?”

“The one by Kungsgatan and the taxi stand.”

He’s going to take a cab, Jonna thought. She started her car and made an illegal U-turn over the central line.

Miguel called again. “He’s taking a cab,” he said. “Do you want me to follow him?”

“Which direction is he taking?”

“Down towards Vasagatan.”

“What type of car?”

“A yellow Saab 9-5,” Miguel answered.

“Jump in a taxi and follow him,” said Jonna.

“I’m already getting into one,” Miguel replied.

Jonna heard him slamming the taxi door.

If Borg turned right on Vasagatan, there was a possibility that Jonna could catch up with him. If not, then he would have too much of a head start and the rush-hour traffic was already well under way. She turned into Fleminggatan and pushed the accelerator pedal to the floor. Jonna weaved her unmarked police car between the other vehicles, using all the traffic lanes, even against oncoming traffic. A bus suddenly swung out from a bus stop and she was forced to slam on the brakes. She skidded around it, clipping the side of the bus with the rear of her car. Then she accelerated away, straightening up the car, and continued the chase. In her rearview mirror, she could see the bus headlights flashing angrily.

Great, now I’m going to be on the hit-and-run list as well, she thought.

Her phone rang and she fumbled for the button while swerving to avoid a woman on a pedestrian crossing.

“He’s heading towards Torsgatan,” Miguel reported.

Jonna turned onto Kungsgatan and then continued onto the Kungsholm bridge.

At the Vasagatan T-junction, she saw a queue at the traffic lights. She steered the car into the oncoming traffic and once again pushed the accelerator to the floor. If she used her blue light, it would attract Borg’s attention. Cars made infuriated signals as she nudged them with her side mirrors at high speed. After passing Norra Bantorget at breakneck speed, she glimpsed a yellow taxi farther down on Torsgatan. There was another taxi two cars behind.

“I can see you now,” Jonna said. “If that’s you in the white Mercedes.”

“What shall I do now?” Miguel asked.

“Pay the driver and forget what you have seen,” said Jonna.

“I can continue to follow the cab,” Miguel suggested.

“Not necessary. But thank you anyway.”

“You’re welcome,” said Miguel and told the taxi driver to pull over.

A little later, the taxi carrying Martin Borg also turned and stopped at the kerb.

Jonna passed by the yellow taxi and parked fifty metres farther down. Shortly afterwards, she saw Borg get out of his taxi. He started to walk towards Jonna, but disappeared into a doorway after a few metres. Was this where he lived?

She got out of her car and started to run towards the street door that he had disappeared into. As she arrived, she saw that it was a car hire firm. Through the dirty glass of the shop window, she could make out Borg’s back and shoulders. He was writing something. To the left of the door was a garage entrance. Twenty minutes later, she watched a black Saab 9-3 driving out of the garage.

It has to be Borg, she thought.

The black Saab passed her, but she wasn’t able to see who was driving. Jonna followed at a safe distance. Despite being flooded with adrenaline, her lack of sleep was beginning to take effect. She changed lanes without looking and almost sideswiped a white Opel. The woman in the Opel gesticulated wildly at Jonna.

The Saab continued into Frejgatan and stopped at the bottom of Upplandsgatan, close to Karlbergsvägen. Jonna tried to find a parking space that would not call attention to her car and also give her a clear view. It was impossible. Every centimetre of the kerb was occupied with parked cars. She could forget double parking. That would get Borg’s attention immediately.

She backed up fifty metres to Vidarögatan. A hundred metres later, she found an unoccupied parking space. She would have to leave her car to watch Borg. It would take nearly two minutes to return to the car and during that time he could drive quite a distance on the side streets of Vasastan before she caught up with him.

She positioned herself in a street entrance with a good view of the Saab and waited. The cold air and fatigue were taking their toll on her. What was she getting herself into?

A mother with a small child passed by. In one hand, she had a bag of groceries, in the other the child’s hand. Most likely on her way home to make food. Perhaps her husband had already prepared dinner. They would soon be sitting at their kitchen table, completely oblivious to the events unfolding on the street below them. That a dirty cop was sitting in the black hire car. That another cop was breaking every rule in the book to find out what he was up to. The family was living in an alternative reality. A snapshot of a society that once was a shining example of low rates of criminality, high morals and freedom from corruption. Since she had started working in the police, all of her preconceived ideas had been turned upside down. She had never been in doubt. Never regretted her choices. But she felt as if she was on thin ice with black, icy-cold water beneath her.

A tall figure came around the corner from Karlsbergsvägen. Jonna’s eyes followed him idly. He stopped for a few seconds, as if he had forgotten something. He must be well over six feet, Jonna thought, as the mother with the child passed by him. He continued walking up Upplandsgatan and then made a beeline for the Saab. As soon as the car lights went on, a shocked Jonna realized who it was.

Jörgen Blad was
boiling with rage. Neither his photographer nor Jonna had told him that the man they were watching had left the police headquarters.

He had been standing in the cold outside the main entrance for no reason. One hour later, Miguel had called and asked where he was. The Argentinian was dying for a lager and to chat about his recent adventure. Jörgen calmed down only when Miguel said that the drinks were on him.

“What a blast,” Miguel said excitedly. “What’s really going on?”

Jörgen gazed out of the window, deep in thought. Pedestrians were hurrying along the pavement outside.

“I have no idea,” he said. “It could be something to do with what happened last year.”

“The stuff you were mixed up in?”

“Could be,” Jörgen shrugged.

“Then you’ll let me in on this one?” Miguel asked anxiously.

Jörgen looked into his eyes. “Depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“If you pull that stunt on me again.”

“You mean, not letting you know what was going on?”

“Exactly.”

“But I explained that,” Miguel justified himself. “It all happened too fast.”

“Really?” Jorgen retorted. “Yet you had time to take a walk, ride the underground and jump in a taxi for a hot pursuit.”

Miguel took a big gulp of lager and stared into his glass.

“I apologize,” he said, resignedly. “You’re right. I should’ve called.”

“If this story breaks, your participation will be on my terms.”

“Absolutely,” said Miguel, emptying his glass. “Want another?”

Jörgen shook his head. “Got to go home to Sebastian. Besides, I’m dog tired.”

Jörgen left the Gröne Jägaren with an increasingly unpleasant feeling of déjà vu.

Chapter 16

Alice McDaniel aimlessly
zapped between the TV channels. In the next twenty minutes, she would have to decide if she was going to miss her flight back to London. One of the news channels showed lots of police cars and road blocks. In the corner of the screen, a photo of an elderly man was displayed while a reporter started an interview with another person. The man in the picture looked alert but worn out, with dark bags under his eyes. A stereotypical police officer. They looked the same in Britain.

Another image appeared. The face of this man was furrowed. Heavy features with lots of skin blemishes. His hair was greasy and his eyes dim. She changed channels and the picture of the policeman appeared again. He was obviously the story of the day. It was a pity she did not understand a word of Swedish. She was about to change the channel when she heard two words that made the hairs rise on her neck.

He was now
consigned to his own fate. The Mentor had promised to produce a dead “perpetrator” for Gnesta, but would that really be enough?

Martin looked at the time, concerned. Hedman should have been here fifteen minutes ago, he thought, wiping condensation from the inside of the windscreen.

His fear that his plan had failed increased by the minute. Hedman had for some unfathomable reason taken that damned Gröhn as his hostage. Not the old couple nor the doctor.

Detective Inspector Walter Gröhn. That Hedman was slow-witted was obvious, but Martin hadn’t dreamed that he was so irrevocably brain-damaged.

“Bloody hell!” he swore out loud, hitting the wheel with his fists. Gröhn and the other morons at County CID had probably managed to turn Hedman. Perhaps the stupid bastard had already started to spill his guts. He was suddenly interrupted by giggling outside the car.

Martin dried the condensation from his side window and saw a few girls passing the car, all wearing the niqab. Four of them, covering their faces with differently coloured veils.

Everywhere. They will soon be everywhere, he thought. They were flooding the ports of Europe. Wave after wave, washing over the flood gates. Martin’s blood boiled again. Instead of dealing with the Islamic problem, he was forced to waste time on something as irrelevant as Tor Hedman. An imbecile who did not even have the wit to turn up to his own execution.

Walter’s offer of
less jail time in exchange for a double-cross was on the table. Most villains in Tor’s position would have taken the deal. Tor still hesitated over the generous, yet unbeknown to him, bogus offer.

He sat transfixed in the car, not moving a muscle. Condensation fogged the glass, so Walter opened his window a few centimetres.

Cold air seeped in through the opening.

“We’d need at least two hours to set you up with a wire and tracking device,” Walter said. “We don’t have that. Borg will get suspicious if you are too late. Without a bug, we can’t keep tabs on you.”

Tor was going crazy from Walter’s chatter. Borg was a psycho and as unpredictable as the counterfeit Bulgarian painkillers he had been forced to take. Would Borg really bump him off? If Tor did as Walter suggested, would he really get a light sentence? Who could he trust?

None of them, he answered himself. Even Ricki had turned on him. Jerry was the only person he had trusted. If Jerry had been alive, he would not have found himself in this mess. He only had himself to blame for getting this deep in the shit.

“Will I have a shooter?” Tor asked.

Walter had not anticipated this request. “Forget about the bugs,” he said. “I’ll put in a good word for you with . . .”

“Will I have a shooter?” Tor repeated. “If I’m going to be bait, then I must be tooled up. You said it yourself, Borg wants to do me in.” Tor was insistent.

“No,” Walter answered.

“Then I’m done with this fucking shit,” Tor said, pulling a Mora hunting knife from his pocket with his damaged right hand. “Cut the tape off and get the fuck out of here,” he said.

“What are you going to do?”

“Cut it!” Tor snarled.

Walter carefully sliced open the duct tape along his forehead. “Is your finger still on the trigger?”

“Just keep cutting,” Tor hissed.

Walter’s hand shook, not from fear but from fatigue.

His body protested at his lack of sleep. Carefully, he cut the tape around his chin, but nicked his skin with the knife. Blood dripped down the side of his neck. “You don’t have to do this,” Walter said, turning around slowly.

Tor stared at Walter with impassive eyes. “I can take care of myself.”

“But we can . . .”

“Shut it,” Tor stopped him.

Walter had finished cutting. He had removed all the duct tape, except for some that was still stuck in his hair. The sawn-off barrels no longer chafed his neck.

“Get lost,” said Tor, waving his gun in Walter’s face.

“I can’t help you if you keep running,” Walter said. “This is your last chance. Take it.”

Tor was not interested in Walter’s sermon. His only concern was to remove the tape from his left hand, so that he could drive the automatic Mazda. He motioned Walter to get out of the car and with some difficulty struggled over to the driver’s seat. Then he revved the engine and took off at high speed down the street.

Walter watched as Hedman made a sharp left into Malmskillnadsgatan and then disappeared around the corner. Moments later, the sound of breaking glass echoed off the buildings. Walter started with surprise before starting to run down the road. He never heard the footsteps behind him.

Panting, he turned the corner and saw plain-clothes police officers with firearms drawn, advancing towards the Mazda. The front of Hedman’s car was rammed into the back of a Volvo estate car. The side windows were smashed and a white Audi blocked the Mazda from behind.

Tor moved inside the car. Two shots were heard and the police took cover behind their cars. Shotgun pellets hit a house wall and fragments flew through the air. One police officer opened fire on the Mazda. Three rounds in rapid succession went into the driver’s door. It was quiet for a brief moment. The only sound heard was the distant sirens of emergency vehicles.

Suddenly, Tor’s arms emerged from the broken window, waving feebly. Three police officers carefully approached, weapons aimed at the car window. One tore open the driver’s door and then the other two roughly wrestled Hedman onto the wet tarmac. It was all over in a few seconds.