Hostage (22 page)

‘What do we know about Karim Sassi’s mother?’ Alex said, making Fredrika jump. ‘Apart from the fact that she worked at an Ericsson factory.’

Fredrika opened her bag and took out a sheet of paper that she had been given by a Säpo agent before they left.

‘Born and raised in Kalmar, moved to Stockholm at the age of twenty. Married young, to Karim’s father who then disappeared from the picture. She worked at the Ericsson factory in
Kista until 2005, when she remarried and became a housewife in Östermalm.’

‘A social climber,’ Alex said.

‘Looks that way.’

A housewife – who would want to be a housewife? Fredrika couldn’t understand it at all. She had been brought up by a hardworking career woman, and had never even considered the idea
of not working. The very idea of putting herself in a situation where she would be dependent on someone else made Fredrika feel ill. Love didn’t mean owning another person, or being owned.
Not even the arch-conservative Spencer would come up with such a bizarre notion.

Alex glanced at Fredrika. ‘Don’t look so bloody judgemental,’ he said. ‘You never know why people make the choices they do.’

Kudos to Alex for saying people rather than women. It strengthened his argument, and made Fredrika think along different lines.

‘Karim has no brothers or sisters,’ she said.

‘No step-siblings either?’

‘No.’

‘Grandparents?’

‘His maternal grandparents are dead. I don’t know anything about his paternal grandparents; they don’t live in Sweden.’

Alex parked outside the building where Karim’s mother lived, not far from the Royal Mews. Fredrika got out of the car and inhaled the thin autumn air. She and Spencer used to see each
other in secret in Östermalm, over all those years when their relationship had to remain clandestine. Sometimes she missed those days so much that it actually hurt. Their impossible love
affair had been like a parallel reality into which Fredrika could disappear when life was difficult or boring. A fun interlude in an everyday existence which often seemed ridiculously dreary and
grey. Everything had been so taboo, so forbidden. Not only was Spencer married, he was the same age as her parents, and had been her tutor at the university. Nothing was more attractive than
something that went against all the rules.

Fredrika loved to think back to their initial flirting. It had been so innocent; she could never have imagined that anything would come of it. Who would be brave enough to take the first step,
dare to be the person who had perhaps misjudged the whole situation? Fredrika thought it was her, but Spencer always said it was him. It didn’t really matter; it was fifteen years ago, and
now they were married and had two children together.

Who is going to be my little adventure now? Fredrika wondered.

Alex led the way inside. The lift took them up to Karim Sassi’s mother’s apartment on the fifth floor, and they rang the doorbell.

‘Shouldn’t we wait for Säpo?’ Fredrika said, remembering that that was what she had agreed with them when she was given the brief summary about Karim’s mother.

‘They’re on their way,’ Alex replied, just as the door opened.

Karim’s mother, Marina Fager, was quite different from the way Fredrika had pictured her. She was small and thin, unlike her tall, broad-shouldered son. They had called to tell her they
were coming, but hadn’t wanted to say why over the phone.

‘We’ll wait until we get there,’ Alex had decided.

But Fredrika could see that Marina Fager already knew why they were there.

‘I spoke to Karim’s wife,’ she said, leading the way into the kitchen where she had coffee waiting for them.

She spread her hands wide; the despair etched on her face was painful to see.

‘I don’t know what to say,’ she whispered. ‘I really don’t know what to say.’

‘Let’s sit down,’ Alex said.

The kitchen was rustic in style, nothing like all those modern kitchens with shiny worktops and cupboard doors that could be found all over Stockholm. This was a homely kitchen, a kitchen in
which to gather friends and family, not a kitchen in which to offer the police a cup of coffee when your son had hijacked a jumbo jet.

‘Säpo called as well,’ Marina said. ‘They wouldn’t tell me anything either; they just said they wanted me to stay at home because they wanted to talk to
me.’

Fredrika opened her mouth to speak, but at that moment the doorbell rang. Karim’s mother leapt up from her chair and hurried into the hallway.

‘We should have come together,’ Fredrika said. ‘This looks so disorganised.’

‘I’m not so sure about that,’ Alex said. ‘It’s important that she realises we belong to different organisations with different assignments to complete.’

There it was again. The assignment.

Karim’s mother returned with two Säpo officers. Fredrika recognised one of them; it was the same man who had been there when they made their first visit to Karim’s house. She
still didn’t know his name, but presumed he had introduced himself to Marina when she opened the door. The other was a woman Fredrika hadn’t seen before. They said a brief hello, then
sat down at the oval kitchen table.

‘How could my Karim end up in a hostage situation?’ Marina said. ‘It just doesn’t make any sense. I don’t know what I’ll do if anything happens to
him.’

‘We understand that,’ the Säpo officer said. His voice was so calm. Fredrika watched as he almost imperceptibly leaned forward across the table, thus getting closer to
Karim’s mother.

‘Have you seen your son lately?’ he asked.

Marina nodded. ‘Of course. We see each other all the time – we’re family, after all.’

‘Have you noticed anything particular recently? For example, would you say that Karim has been stressed, anything like that?’

‘No, I can’t say I have.’

‘He hasn’t withdrawn? Kept himself to himself?’

‘No.’ Marina frowned.‘Why are you asking all these question about Karim? He’s the captain of the plane, not the hijacker.’

As she finished speaking, she caught Alex’s eye across the table. Her hand flew to her mouth in horror.

‘You’re crazy! Karim would never . . .’

Alex held up his hand to calm her.

‘We’re following up on several leads, but at the moment it does look as if Karim could be involved. We don’t know exactly how or why, and that’s what we’re trying
to find out.’

The Säpo officer joined in.

‘Exactly. We’re not certain, but we think that Karim may be mixed up in all this. And if he isn’t, then of course it’s vital that we find out as quickly as
possible.’

Karim’s mother nodded; she had settled down a little.

‘Of course.’

‘Zakaria Khelifi,’ Alex said. ‘Do you recognise the name?’

‘Of course I do,’ Marina said sadly. ‘He spent some time with Karim one summer many years ago – 2001 or 2002, I think.’

‘How did they become friends?’

‘I was working at the Ericsson factory in Kista back then, and so was Zakaria’s uncle. He knew I had a son roughly the same age as his nephew, so when Zakaria came over to Sweden
that summer, I asked Karim to take him out a few times. I don’t know if I’d call them friends; as far as I know they haven’t been in touch since then.’

‘Do you know what Zakaria is doing these days?’ Alex said.

Maria turned and reached for a newspaper that was lying on the window ledge.

‘Isn’t he the same Zakaria who’s going to be deported?’ she said, pointing to an article on the front page.

‘Indeed he is,’ Fredrika said. ‘What did you think when you read about Zakaria in the press?’

Maria put the paper down.

‘The same as I thought when you turned up and started telling me you think my Karim is a terrorist. It doesn’t make sense. I don’t know what has happened in Zakaria’s
life since he was here in 2002, but back then he was a really nice boy. Hard working and conscientious – a good boy.’

‘Whoever has hijacked the plane is demanding the release of Zakaria Khelifi,’ Fredrika said.

‘And that’s why you think Karim is behind this? Because they hung out together one summer ten years ago?’

It was impossible to answer that question without giving away more information than necessary, so Marina got no reply.

However, Fredrika silently ran through everything that pointed to Karim’s involvement.

His fingerprints on the phone that had been used to make a bomb threat the previous afternoon.

The fact that he knew Zakaria Khelifi.

The book by Tennyson in which the photograph of Karim and Zakaria had been hidden.

The note found in the toilet on the plane after take-off.

The doubts came from nowhere, hitting Fredrika like a blow to the solar plexus.

We’re missing something here. Something really important.

It was all too simple. Everything was being served up to them on a silver platter.

‘Tennyson,’ Fredrika said in a tone so brusque that the Säpo officer turned to look at her.

Marina Fager looked blank.

‘Alfred Lord Tennyson, the poet. Do you know if he had a special significance for Karim?’

‘I’ve never even heard of him.’

‘He wrote the poem “Ring out, wild bells” – the one they read out at Skansen every New Year’s Eve.’

Marina shrugged. ‘Is he mixed up in this too?’

Fredrika suppressed a laugh. The first of the day; it would have been nice to let it out.

‘No. He’s been dead for a long time.’ The Säpo officer had one last question.

‘Where can we get hold of Karim’s father?’

‘I haven’t a clue. Neither Karim nor I have heard from him for the last twenty years.’

‘According to the records, he emigrated.’

‘That could well be the case. Nothing that man does would surprise me.’

Marina rested her elbows on the table, demanding everyone’s attention.

‘I didn’t think you were interested in men like Karim. In a way, I’m glad I was wrong.’

Fredrika had no idea what she was talking about, and she could see that her colleague from Säpo was in the same boat.

‘What do you mean?’ he said.

‘I thought you only went after Islamists, that you assumed all terrorists were Muslims. But that’s not the case.’

The guy from Säpo looked as if didn’t know what to say, how to react.

‘Of course not,’ he managed eventually.

But it was obvious that he didn’t understand what this had to do with Karim Sassi, and Marina went on:

‘I presume you know that Karim was born and raised by two Christian parents who only go to church on Christmas Day?’

Their expressions gave them away, and Marina immediately exploded.

‘I don’t believe it! You looked at my Karim and saw a terrorist, just because he has his father’s name and colouring! You assumed that he was a Muslim, because that would make
him fit in better in your imaginary world!’

‘Listen to me,’ the Säpo officer said, trying to turn things around. ‘We haven’t assumed anything, we’re just trying to work out why someone is interested in
what happens to Zakaria Khelifi. And unfortunately, your son knows Khelifi, or at least used to know him, and he is flying the plane that has been hijacked by someone whose only contact so far has
been through a note left in one of the toilets on board.’

As Fredrika listened, she thought her colleague was both right and wrong. At no point during the investigation had they put a label on the terrorists who were holding four hundred passengers
hostage, but they had definitely assumed that there was an Islamic connection.

Because there was a connection in Zakaria Khelifi’s case.

And there was a connection when it came to Tennyson Cottage.

A suspicion was beginning to grow in Fredrika’s mind:

Karim is not the one who’s behind this. At least not alone.

On the other hand, terrorism had so many different faces. Who was to say it couldn’t look like Karim Sassi?

F
or the first time, Eden Lundell was standing smoking in the shelter down in the basement at Police HQ. A decision had been made to remove all
smoking shelters, but for some reason the one in the basement had remained. In the past Eden wouldn’t have dreamt of smoking in there. It would have been beyond tragic. Until today. It was
pouring with rain outside, and she wanted to stay away from the main entrance where reporters were hiding out in various vehicles.

She was pleased to find herself alone in the smoking shelter. If anyone had been sitting there when she arrived, she would have asked that person to leave. She needed to be on her own, to light
a cigarette and think about everything that had happened during the course of the day.

It had really started the previous day, with the empty bomb threats. Eden still didn’t understand where they fitted into this drama. The next thing was the bomb threat found on a flight
heading for the USA. Terrorism had once more raised its head in Sweden, severely shaking the Swedish self-image, which was so pathetic that Eden couldn’t take it seriously.

The image of Sweden as a country that didn’t deserve terrorism. The country that trumpeted its neutrality, yet co-operated on a military basis with both the EU and NATO. The country that
thought it could draw on significant reserves of international goodwill, because for decades it had been regarded as pro-Palestinian. The country that regarded itself as a role model for other
nations, in every respect. Crap, all of it. Times had changed, and it was necessary to adjust expectations, to accept the reality of the situation.

She glanced at her watch. Damn it, the girls needed picking up from day care. She had no choice, she would have to call Mikael and ask him to abandon his confirmation class. National security
must come first.

Decisively, she stubbed out her cigarette on the shiny surface of the ashtray. The latest information from the Americans was that they were going to ask Karim to stay outside US airspace until
further notice. That sounded sensible; once he had passed over the US border, anything could happen. A plan of action began to take shape in Eden’s mind. First of all, she wanted to find out
what the interviews with Zakaria’s uncle and Karim’s mother had produced, if anything. Then she would turn every single scrap of information in Zakaria’s case inside out. There
had to be a link between Zakaria and Tennyson Cottage, she was sure of it. It was there, right in front of them. She could feel it in her whole body. So why couldn’t she see it?