Last Will (43 page)

Maybe it was because the undersecretary of state was there. Thomas understood that he had slipped up by inviting Halenius, but he was an easy-going sort and his presence had probably contributed to the fact that the party had gone on so late. Things had been a bit different, simply because he was there.

Unless they had all been waiting for Annika to get home and cause another scandal?

He poured himself some more coffee, now cold and unpleasant.

And she never wanted to have sex anymore.

He had never been so utterly starved of sex before, not even when things had been at their worst, with Eleonor. At least his ex-wife used to
go through the motions every now and then for the sake of it, but ever since that Red Wolf business Annika had hardly even touched him. It was as if she hated him, as if he was no longer good enough for her.

And now she was going to start working again, as if things weren’t tough enough for him already. First she wanted to move, and now, just when he really needed to focus on his career, there was a whole load of painting and decorating to do.

Is this what it’s going to be like from now on? he wondered.

Am I going to spend the rest of my life sitting here?

Isn’t there more to it than this?

He felt his pulse throb in his neck and pushed the questions aside, too tired, too hungover. Instead he picked up the paper again and turned to the editorial.

Maybe this evening she would come home and get the meal and then want to have sex and everything would be the same as it used to be.

The editorial was about the responses to the consultation about his bugging proposal. The Association of Lawyers was against, as was the Parliamentary Ombudsman. They were making a big deal out of this, suggesting that these were objective reasons for abandoning the whole proposal.

We knew this would happen all along, Thomas thought. The papers have no idea what they’re writing about.

“Daddy,” Ellen said.

Thomas sighed.

“What?”

“I’m thirsty.”

He swallowed, put the paper down, fetched a glass and filled it with water. He put it in front of his daughter and went back to his paper.

“I want soda.”

“You’re not getting soda,” Thomas said. “You can drink water if you’re thirsty.”

The editorial went on to criticize the measures, saying they were an attack on individual integrity, and claiming that the proposed methods were unnecessary because they were ineffective. They said the entire EU directive on the storage of data was ill-considered, and …

“Daddy!” Ellen said.

“What is it now?!” Thomas shouted, throwing the newspaper down.

The little girl stared at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. She didn’t say anything, just grabbed Poppy and Ludde and went upstairs to her room.

“What are we having for lunch?” Kalle asked.

Thomas put his hands over his eyes and groaned.

Spike was sitting at the news desk with both feet up on his desk.

“What’s the deal with this dead guy, then?” he said without looking up at her.

“The second chair of the Nobel Committee to be murdered in six months,” Annika said.

He sighed theatrically.

“Yes,” he said, “I can see that from the paper. Anything else?”

“I’ve only just got here,” Annika said. “About fifteen seconds ago.”

He threw her a quick glance and dropped his feet to the floor, grabbed the desk and pulled himself toward it on his wheeled office chair.

“Personally, I think it’s a pretty dead story,” he said. “Keep an eye on it today, but don’t expect to write a novel about it for tomorrow.”

“I thought I wasn’t supposed to cover crime?” Annika said, picking up a pear that was lying beside Spike’s phone.

The head of news leaned over with surprising speed and snatched the fruit from her hand.

“Leave that alone,” he said.

Annika stared at him for a few seconds, and realized that he was actually slightly less fat than before.

“Spike,” she said, “you’re on a diet!”

“Berit’s busy on another story,” he said, biting into the pear. “A really good lead. Maybe you could have a word with her, pick up a few tips …”

Annika picked up her bag and went over to see Berit.

“Hi,” she said, flopping down on Patrik’s chair. “What’s going on?”

Berit looked up over her glasses.

“Great job last night. We left the competition at the starting gate—that guy of theirs, Bosse, didn’t manage to get anything. Was he even there?”

Annika felt herself start to blush.

“Yes,” she said, “but they got there too late.”

“Who’s the person they’ve taken in for questioning?” Berit asked.

“Another professor at Karolinska,” Annika said. “He’s a bit of a nut—he’s got it into his head that it’s his duty to make threats against people and tell them what they’re doing wrong. And he’s a creationist as well.”

“What?” Berit said.

“Thinks there ought to be more God in science. So what’s this story you’ve got on the go?”

“Jemal,” Berit said. “The father from Bandhagen.”

Annika nodded—yes, she remembered.

“It’s completely crazy,” Berit said. “The Swedish government decided that Jemal should be deported from Sweden, and they didn’t waste any time. The CIA picked him up from Bromma Airport the same night.”

Annika gave her a skeptical look.

“The CIA?” she said. “That sounds like a bad film.”

Berit took off her glasses and moved her chair closer to Annika’s. When she spoke, her voice was low and intense.

“American agents with hoods over their heads picked him up from a room inside Bromma Airport. They cut off his clothes, dug around in his mouth and backside, drugged him with suppositories, and put a diaper on him. Then they put a hood over his head and dragged him out to their private chartered plane. They chained him to the fuselage and left him like that all the way to Amman.”

Annika’s mouth was hanging open.

“Who on earth sanctioned that?” she whispered, hearing the shock in her voice.

“The government took the decision to deport him, and the foreign minister was informed about the means of transport, but the Foreign Ministry claim that she wasn’t aware of the involvement of the CIA, or of any abuse. It was just a run-of-the-mill deportation for a run-of-the-mill terrorist, and the nice Americans offered to give him a lift.”

“So the American Secret Service can just go round picking up people from our airports and no one’s allowed to have any say in the matter?” Annika said, far too loudly.

Berit looked round.

“The government isn’t allowed to dictate how the police should conduct their business, and the Security Police are blaming one unfortunate officer who was sent out there to oversee the deportation,” she said quietly. “It’s all his fault, apparently. The problem is that he handed over control of the deportation to the Americans, but do you know what else he did after that?”

“What?” Annika asked.

Berit sighed, as if she were collecting her thoughts before answering.

“When the abuse got too painful to watch he went out and threw up. So the plane took off without him having any idea of what had happened.”

“Christ …” Annika said.

She sat quietly for a minute, thinking hard.

“Mind you, we’re hardly alone in this,” she eventually said. “The CIA have evidently been hiring private planes and gone around picking up people from all over Europe in the past few years.”

“They’ve given him a life sentence in Jordan,” Berit said. “They tortured him with beatings and electric shocks until he confessed; then a military tribunal declared that he was guilty of planning and carrying out acts of terrorism. His lawyer wasn’t allowed to call any witnesses, and the verdict can’t be appealed against. He’ll end up dying in that prison, and his daughters will never see their father again.”

Berit moved her chair back to her desk. Annika stared at her for a few seconds.

“How the hell did you find out about this?” she asked.

“Fatima has visited him in prison, and he told her he’d been tortured.”

“And the CIA?”

“I got hold of the details of the plane. A Raytheon Hawker 88XP, registration number N168BF. It’s owned by a small American company.”

“And?” Annika said.

Berit looked up at her.

“I called and said I’d like to hire it.”

“And?”

“They said they only have one client: the American state.”

“Christ,” Annika said again.

“Patrik’s checked out the plane, it’s been flying around picking up people all over the world. It often takes them to Cuba, to Guantánamo.”

“But someone has to be responsible for this,” Annika said. “Someone has to be made to answer for this! Sweden’s a constitutional state—we don’t send people to be tortured and killed.”

“The government claims that they were given guarantees by the authorities in Jordan: Jemal was going to receive a fair trial and obviously not be tortured. Well, we can see now how much that promise was worth.”

“When are we running this?”

“Tomorrow, I hope,” Berit said, standing up. “I’ve got to go. I’ve got a meeting with the foreign minister.”

“You won’t get anything out of her,” Annika said.

“Of course not,” Berit said, as she picked up her handbag and headed out.

Annika sat down at Berit’s desk and started making phone calls.

No answer from Birgitta Larsén, either at work or at home in Bisittargatan.

Q’s number redirected her to reception.

The duty desk of the crime unit was still refusing to comment on Ernst Ericsson’s death.

The press office merely referred to a press conference planned for later that afternoon.

She tried to find Ernst Ericsson’s children in the national database, hoping to find a son of the right age, but the surname threw up far too many results. And it turned out his ex-wife had moved to Provence.

She called the Nobel Forum and spoke to a very polite but apologetic secretary who was unable to tell her anything about anything.

Shit, this was hopeless!

Perhaps Ebba knew something.

She pulled out her cell phone and checked the number she had saved in its memory.

“Hello?”

“Ebba!” Annika said. “God, am I glad to hear your voice!”

“Annika?”

Ebba sounded surprised and slightly worried.

“Yes! Have you heard what’s happened?”

There was a lot of noise at the other end of the line.

“What? Has there been a break-in? A fire?”

Annika blinked several times; her eyes felt gritty.

“A break-in? No, no, nothing to do with the house. It’s Ernst. Ernst Ericsson. You haven’t heard the news?”

“I’m in the car, on my way down to the Co-op in Vansbro, in Dalarna, to pick up some food and a paper.”

All of the sudden the call wasn’t so straightforward anymore.

“Ernst Ericsson is dead,” Annika said. “He died last night.”

There were a few moments of silence on the line.

“Ebba?”

“Yes, I’m here. Are you sure?”

“The police think he was murdered.”

“You’re kidding?” Ebba said.

“I’m afraid not,” Annika said.

“Murdered, how?”

“Don’t know yet—they haven’t released the cause of death.”

The news in the background got quieter; it sounded like Ebba had pulled over to the side of the road and stopped.

“That’s awful,” she said. “I only saw him on Saturday.”

“I know,” Annika said. “You said you were going to go to that seminar. How was it—was it good?”

“Really good, but there was a bit of a fuss afterwards. Lars-Henry Svensson came to the buffet, and he was completely out of control. It ended up with the police coming out to pick him up. I feel so sorry for him.”

“And he spoke to Ernst?”

“I don’t know—I think so. He probably spoke to everyone. Why do you ask?”

“The police have pulled Lars-Henry in for questioning,” Annika said.

Ebba snorted audibly.

“That’s ridiculous,” she said. “Lars-Henry would never hurt a fly.”

Cliché of the month, Annika thought.

“Did he say anything to you?”

Ebba sighed.

“He was angry because he thinks I bought my way into the scientific community, and he can’t seem to forgive me for that. He doesn’t mean anything by it—he’s completely harmless. You’ll see—the police are bound to let him go soon.”

Annika heard Ebba put the car in gear again, then the crunch of gravel as she pulled away.

Suddenly she had a flashback to her own car, standing at the traffic lights at the end of Barnhusbron the day before, a red Volvo station wagon in the next lane, a woman behind the wheel.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“I’ve just passed Hulån, and I’m on my way to Skamhed.”

“You weren’t in Stockholm just after lunchtime yesterday?”

“I should be back tomorrow afternoon, unless I have to set off earlier because of this business with Ernst. Well, I suppose I’d better …”

Annika closed her eyes and tried to imagine Ebba driving her car, listening hard to see if she could pick up any sounds in the background. What did it look like outside the car? Dark pine forest? A built-up area? Surely she ought to be able to tell the difference?

“Sure,” Annika said. “Call me if there’s anything you want to know.”

And she hung up. She held the cradle down for a couple of seconds, then dialed the reception desk of the Karolinska Institute.

Asked for Sören Hammarsten.

Not available.

Asked for Ernst Ericsson’s personal secretary.

Was told he wasn’t there.

She hung up and stared at the screen of Berit’s computer.

Who else could she call? Who might know something about what happened on Saturday? The people who were there, obviously, but who would want to talk to her?

She picked up the phone and dialed the Karolinska Institute again.

“I was wondering if you had a Bernhard Thorell there?”

There was the sound of tapping on a keyboard.

“Thorell, with an
h
?”

“I think so.”

More tapping.

“Yes, I’ve got him here. It’s a cell phone number. Wait a moment and I’ll connect you.”