Hostage (10 page)

For what must have been the twentieth time that morning, Fredrika pulled out his file. She summarised Säpo’s information to herself. He, or rather his telephone number, had cropped up
during a preliminary investigation back in 2009. Then he came up in the operation following the death threats against prominent figures in France. And finally, he came up again in the investigation
during which he was arrested and charged. There was now proof that he had helped the perpetrators to collect packages containing substances that they had later used to produce a bomb. Furthermore,
Säpo added that Zakaria Khelifi had been identified by Ellis, one of the perpetrators, as a person who had assisted them.

Fredrika went over the issue again and again. She would be attending a briefing with the Minister for Justice very soon. Did she have any objections that she could raise during the meeting?

Not really.

What should she say? The same as she had said to Alex – that she had a feeling something was wrong? It would be stupid to imagine that the Minister for Justice would be impressed by such a
feeble argument. There was sufficient evidence to regard Zakaria Khelifi as a security threat. If it had been any other crime apart from terrorism, she wouldn’t have hesitated for a second
when it came to his guilt. And if she wanted to raise the issue of how security matters were handled as a matter of principle, she would have to wait for a better opportunity.

Alex was right; she was behaving neither rationally nor professionally. Who was she to start questioning procedures that had doubtless been in place for decades? If everyone else thought the
rules were in order and that Zakaria Khelifi’s case had been assessed correctly, then why should she start asking questions?

Säpo’s work seemed very familiar, yet at the same time it was a million miles from the police work Fredrika had been involved in as part of Alex’s team. Säpo dealt with
cases where only a small number were ever convicted, but far more were suspects. They often had information that couldn’t be brought up in a public forum, which made it difficult to move
forward in certain instances. How frustrating must that be on a daily basis?

Fredrika decided it was time to back off. She wasn’t getting anywhere. If she wanted to raise the issue, she had to come up with new information. God knows how she was going to do
that.

Once she had made the decision, she felt much calmer. The meeting with the Minister took place shortly afterwards.

‘I’ve spoken to the PM,’ Muhammed Haddad said. ‘We’re in agreement; we refuse to meet the hijackers’ demands. If we do, we’ll end up with one bomb
threat for every single person we decide to deport, and we can’t have that. However, we are wondering how we’re going to communicate with the hijackers to inform them of our
standpoint.’

‘That’s a matter for the police,’ the Secretary of State said.

‘I realise that, but we have to bear in mind that the threat was left on the plane, and therefore it was up to the crew to deal with it. The hijackers did not choose to contact the police
directly, which suggests that we might be able to work out a communication strategy of our own. They might even be expecting it.’

‘What did the Americans say?’ Fredrika asked.

‘They went crazy, of course,’ said the Secretary of State, who had evidently been involved in the discussion. ‘The Foreign Office is dealing with communications, but they
expect support from us with ongoing updates. We have spoken to both the State Department and the Department of Homeland Security, and they in turn have spoken to just about everybody you can think
of – the CIA, FBI, NSA, the lot. Säpo are dealing with those contacts from the Swedish side, by the way.’

It was obvious that the Secretary of State was enjoying being in the centre of things. Fredrika was sure he got a hard-on just from saying CIA. Pathetic.

She glanced at her watch. The plane had been in the air for less than two hours. There was still plenty of fuel in the tank.

The Minister for Justice was very clear. The government had no intention of revising its decision on the deportation of Zakaria Khelifi. Hearing him speak made Fredrika feel safe. Muhammed
Haddad was known for his calm approach and his intelligence but, above all, he was not remotely interested in individual glory. If he thought the government had made a mistake in revoking
Khelifi’s residence permit, he wouldn’t hesitate to admit that he had been wrong.

But Zakaria Khelifi was only half the solution. The hijackers had also asked for the closure of a detention facility known as Tennyson Cottage. A so-called secret jail.

The chances of the Americans shutting down a place like that in order to meet the demands of a hijacker were non-existent.

A
t 09:30 Swedish time, a jumbo jet had taken off from Arlanda airport in Stockholm. Half an hour later, the pilot had called the control tower and
informed them that a bomb threat had been found in one of the plane’s toilets. The message that landed on Bruce Johnson’s desk didn’t contain a great deal of information, but it
was more than enough.

The plane’s final destination was New York.

There were American citizens on board.

And the threat was addressed directly to the United States government.

‘If the Swedes don’t get the fact that we’re going to sort this out together, we’ll just walk all over them,’ the director of the FBI had said when he got a call at
four o’clock in the morning US time, and was given the news.

He had then put Bruce’s boss in charge of dealing with the hijacked plane, and the boss in turn had handed operational responsibility to Bruce.

It was now five o’clock in the morning, and Bruce was on his second cup of coffee. The FBI worked around the clock, but there weren’t many people in the office yet. He had already
been in touch with his counterpart in the CIA, and had also spoken to several different departments that were involved. It would be a few hours before everyone was in, but once they were, it would
be all-out war. At the moment, it looked as if the FBI would carry the main responsibility, but as the plane wasn’t yet in American airspace, it could be argued that this was an external
threat approaching the borders of the USA, and should therefore fall within the remit of the defence service.

Bruce wasn’t interested in arguments of that kind. If everyone just stuck to their own job and did what they were best at, their joint operations were usually successful.

He wasn’t particularly impressed with the information he had received from Sweden. He hadn’t seen a list of passengers or crew members. Nor had he been given any details about the
Swedes’ assessment of how likely it was that there might be a bomb in the baggage hold or in the cabin itself.

Bruce was far from convinced that there really was a bomb; however, he was certain that the hijackers were serious. The reason for this was that Tennyson Cottage had been mentioned.

Tennyson Cottage was one of the CIA’s facilities, and not something with which the FBI would concern itself under any circumstances, but that didn’t mean Bruce didn’t know
about the place and its brief history. Guantánamo had become too controversial, too complicated, and by this stage, Bruce knew hardly anyone who didn’t want to shut down the goddamn
place and forget it ever existed. But that wasn’t the way things worked, and everyone knew it. One person who had become particularly conscious of the problem was the President, who had made
it an election issue in 2008. You had to wonder what kind of advisers the guy must have had; a high-school student could have worked out that trying to shut down Guantánamo was going to be
hell.

But why would a place like Tennyson Cottage turn up in a bomb threat written in Swedish, which also gave the name of a person that the Swedish Security Service believed was involved in
terrorism? Bruce was very dubious about the whole thing, to say the least. Tennyson Cottage wasn’t like Guantánamo; it wasn’t well known and it wasn’t talked about. He
believed the name had leaked out in some context, and that it was possible to find it on the Internet, but you had to know what you were looking for.

Therefore, the fact that the hijackers had mentioned Tennyson Cottage said something about them. The only question was what that might be. Had Swedish citizens ever been held there? Bruce
didn’t think so, but he would have to check with the CIA. He knew that Säpo had been in touch with the CIA, and that it was therefore entirely possible that Säpo knew more than the
FBI right now, but if that was the case, things had to change.

Bruce had made a note of the person he had spoken to: Eden Lundell. Her English was so good that Bruce had felt compelled to ask if she originally came from an English-speaking country. It
transpired that her mother was British, and that Eden had lived in London for many years.

There was something familiar about both Eden’s name and her half-British background but, for the life of him, Bruce couldn’t remember where he had come across her before. Eventually,
he went to see a colleague who might be able to help.

‘Eden Lundell, used to live in England. Have we worked with her? Why does her name sound so familiar?’

His colleague grinned. ‘We certainly do know who she is,’ he said.

And Bruce suddenly remembered the story they had heard from the Brits a few years ago.
How the hell had she managed to become the boss of the Swedish counter-terrorism operation?
Didn’t the Swedes realise what a risk she constituted?

Tennyson Cottage. That was what Bruce had to focus on, not how Säpo recruited its personnel. How could the hijacker or hijackers possibly know about Tennyson Cottage? And why was it
important to them that Tennyson Cottage of all places should be shut down?

If they could find the answers to those questions, they would soon be on the trail of whoever was behind the hijacking.

T
hey met in Säpo’s HQ once again. This time, Alex Recht got to see more of the counter-terrorism unit. If he hadn’t known, he
would never have guessed that he was just a stone’s throw from his own office. A huge number of internal walls had been knocked down to create vast open-plan offices, with tall screens
marking out the different workstations. The windows were just as depressingly small as in the building where the National Bureau of Investigation operated, but the ceiling height had been raised
and the walls were painted white. The floor was newly laid, and the computers were much more up to date than the ones Alex was used to. Most of the staff seemed to have at least two monitors on
their desks; some had three. Several glass cubes dotted around the office served as modern meeting rooms, combining the maximum amount of light with maximum soundproofing. In some of the cubes,
huge screens displayed maps, pictures of a range of individuals, and detailed summaries of information.

‘Impressive,’ Alex said.

‘Thanks; our analysts are responsible for those rooms, which also serve as our operational offices. It’s important that we have all the information to hand when we’re
discussing a particular issue. The screens have been invaluable in that respect.’

‘I can well believe it,’ Alex said, mainly for the sake of having something to say.

Säpo looked like a film set for an American crime thriller, which wasn’t quite what he had been expecting. He was also surprised by the dress code; all the men were wearing dark
suits, and so were most of the women. Those who weren’t in trouser suits wore a skirt suit or a dress. Alex felt out of place in his dark trousers and sports jacket.

As Eden led the way through the open-plan office, they passed a man who was on the phone, speaking loudly in French.

‘You don’t use interpreters here?’ Alex asked.

‘On certain occasions, but as a rule we expect our staff to speak at least one language in addition to Swedish and English. Many are fluent in four or five.’

She smiled at Alex. ‘How many languages do you speak?’

‘One. Two if you count English, but I’m not that good.’

‘In that case, perhaps it’s just as well that you were assigned to this particular job so that you can get some practice,’ Eden said. ‘Coffee?’

The coffee machine looked like a spaceship.

‘No thanks,’ Alex said, not wanting to reveal that he was a technophobe as well as a poor linguist.

But Eden saw through him and handed him a cup anyway.

‘Press here and here, et voilà!’

He peered into the cup.

‘Amazing,’ he said.

‘We live and learn,’ Eden replied. ‘This way.’

One of the smaller, more discreet glass cubes turned out to be Eden’s office. She closed the door behind them.

‘As I understand it, you’re sharing responsibility for this case with a colleague,’ Eden said.

‘Yes, but he’s gone to another meeting,’ Alex said. ‘With the Criminal Intelligence Service. We decided I would come and see you.’

Alex had no idea what the purpose of the other meeting might be, and was glad that he was seeing Eden instead.

‘Excuse me for asking, but is there a reason why there are two of you in charge now? Because you had sole responsibility to begin with, didn’t you?’

The coffee was hot and felt as if it was scalding his throat on the way down.

‘My son is the co-pilot on the hijacked plane. We didn’t realise that at first. I never know which flights he’s on.’

We don’t speak very often, he wanted to add, but felt it was too personal.

Eden sat down at her desk and gazed at Alex.

‘I understand,’ she said.

She rifled through a pile of papers in front of her and extracted a document.

‘Oh, yes, it’s on here,’ she said. ‘Erik Recht is your son?’

‘Yes.’

Alex drank some more coffee, which was still too bloody hot.

Someone knocked on the door. Eden looked up as it opened.

‘SAS have just sent over the lists of passengers and crew. We’re running them through our internal databases, and should have a result within a few minutes. I’ll take a closer
look at any matches that might come up, see if they look interesting, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I know.’