Misterioso

Chavez came into the kitchen and sat down next to Hultin. “It’s exactly the same,” he said.

“Not really,” said Hultin. “We need to hear more from the techs. Apparently one bullet was left behind.”

They were sitting in the kitchen of a huge mansion in the suburb of Djursholm, just a couple of blocks from the house owned by Eric Blomgren, the retired judge, with whom the other retired judge, Rickard Franzen, had spent an uneventful evening over a chessboard while drinking cognac. It was at the latter address that Chavez and Norlander had sat in their police vehicle, keeping watch all evening. Presumably that fact bothered both of them.

The villa belonged to a man by the name of Nils-Emil Carlberger. His body was discovered in the living room just after eight-thirty in the morning, when his house cleaner arrived. She called the police and then vanished. Nobody knew who she was or where she was now. In all likelihood she was a refugee who was supposed to be deported and thus had gone underground, making a living by cleaning houses for minuscule wages. The Carlberger family consisted of a wife and two grown sons. They would be notified shortly. The wife, Nancy, was staying at the family summer house outside Halmstad, getting it ready for the season. The sons lived in Landvetter and Lund, respectively. Neither of them was active in the business empire owned by Nils-Emil Carlberger. One was an air traffic controller and the other a doctoral candidate in sociology. Nancy had been a secretary in one of the firms belonging to the Carlberger conglomerate before she gave it up to become a housewife. She was not the mother of his two sons.

That was about all they knew so far.

The elderly M.E. came into the kitchen, vigorously scratching the back of his neck.

“As far as I’m concerned, everything seems identical,” he said. “Two shots through the brain. Death seems to have been instantaneous. I’ll get back to you, of course, with more details after the autopsy, but I don’t think you should hope for any big revelations from my side.”

“We’re not expecting anything like that, Sigvard,” said Hultin quietly. “Is Svenhagen almost done?”

The M.E., Sigvard Qvarfordt, shrugged.

They went back to waiting. The venetian blinds were losing their battle against the sun, which seemed filled with the promise of spring, and the kitchen table was streaked with thin bars of sunlight.

Hjelm opened the kitchen door onto the terrace. Chavez followed as he stepped outside.

“See that chimney over there? The tallest one?” said Chavez, squinting and pointing across the two neighboring yards. “That’s Blomgren’s house. That’s where we sat yesterday, freezing in Norlander’s Volvo. He was here, creeping around right next door. Maybe he saw us and laughed to himself.”

Hjelm shrugged.

“Maybe we should have felt his presence,” muttered Chavez, drinking in the sunshine. “Como en casa,” he said with pleasure.

“Like home?” said Hjelm. “Where’s that?”

“Ragsved,” said Chavez, and went back inside. “Naci aqui,” he said over his shoulder. “I was born here.”

In the kitchen Brynolf Svenhagen, who was in charge of the crime scene techs, was looking through his notebook but spoke in standard phrases guaranteed not to be included in his notes.

“Naturally we’ll be going over the whole house with a fine-toothed comb today. But it looks like no evidence has been left behind, as usual. Except for the bullet. He removed one bullet but not the second. That gives us something to go on. We’ll analyze it as soon as possible. What I can tell you right now is that I don’t recognize it. It’s not one of the six or seven most common types.”

He went back to the living room, where both his subordinates were still crawling around on the floor and over the sofa. Hjelm saw the black-covered stretcher slip past, out in the hall, under the supervision of M.E. Qvarfordt.

A sleepy mood rather than an air of resignation had descended over the kitchen. It had been a long shot, and things hadn’t worked out. That happens. Although it was too bad that Rickard Franzen Jr. had suffered a cut to the face when Nyberg shoved him down onto the rya rug. Commissioner Waldemar Morner had already set up an account in the budget for the anticipated legal claim for bodily harm.

“So we’re just going to have to start over,” said Hultin matter-of-factly. “CEO Carlberger actually fits the pattern better than the incorruptible judge. It should be crystal clear by now that this whole thing somehow has to do with business. Hjelm, you’ll check up on whether this castrates the Mimir lead, and if so, follow up on the significantly less castrated Dionysus angle instead. And don’t forget about the golf course guest books. The workload is going to increase dramatically for those of you working on the business aspect. We’ll probably have to bring in a few more people, Nyberg. Holm, you’ll keep working on the personal angle. Norlander will continue with the international. According to what the good Svenhagen said, the bullet could be foreign. That remains to be seen.

“And then there’s the inexplicable fact that the bullet was left in the wall. Was he interrupted? Did he intentionally leave a clue behind? If so, did he do it to play with us, to lead us astray, or because for some reason he actually wants to get caught? Or did he make his first mistake? There’s undoubtedly a reason. The bullet will soon be on its way to the lab. I want all of you to think about that. To summarize quickly: Norlander, the international aspect; Holm, the personal; Chavez, Soderstedt, Nyberg, the business angle; Hjelm, the sexual. As soon as I hear the slightest peep from Mr. Crime Tech Boss, Brynolf Svenhagen, I’ll call you in for a proper rundown. Questions?”

No questions.

At any rate, none that Hultin could answer.

They left the magnificent villa in the care of the crime techs.

Hultin heard the first peep from Mr. Crime Tech Boss Brynolf Svenhagen at 11:22 A.M. on April 3. By 11:51 the team had gathered in Supreme Central Command-Chavez’s name for it had been officially adopted, as Waldemar Morner had given it his “full approval.” They had all been in their offices when Hultin called on the intercom at 11:23. All except one.

At that moment Hjelm was sitting in a basement on Stall-grand in Gamla Stan, where no cell phone signals could reach. Guardian Clofwenhielm typed in the name “Carlberger, Nils-Emil” on his little cheese-bell computer but got no hit. Nils-Emil Carlberger was not and never had been a member of the Order of Skidbladnir or the Order of Mimir or any order whatsoever.

At 11:35 Clofwenhielm drew aside the heavy drapery covering the entrance to the order’s inner sanctum. At 11:41 Paul Hjelm came out and made a sacred vow never to reveal what he had seen inside. He would keep his word. At 11:42 he emerged into the narrow alleyway and took a call from Hultin on his cell, notifying him of the meeting. At 11:51 he entered the room now known as the Supreme Central Command, with its capital letters. At 13:09 he laughed loudly at this label, when Chavez, also laughing, told him about it.

But before then, the following took place.

Jan-Olov Hultin informed them that news of the murder of Nils-Emil Carlberger, the head of the Carlberger conglomerate, had not yet reached the media. Apparently, and to Hultin’s great relief, as he said without changing expression, the media leak was not due to anyone within the A-Unit.

“As I suspected,” said Hultin modestly, “there’s something very special about the bullet that was left in the wall. Svenhagen has conducted some sort of incomprehensible but irrefutable chemical analysis of the shattered bits of lead and found a most particular chemical component. It’s a damned inferior bullet, and those types of inferior bullets stem from a small, second-rate weapons factory in a town called Pavlodar in present-day Kazakhstan. Vladimir Smirnov’s country, you know.

“Svenhagen has personally been in contact with Interpol’s forensic data center this morning, and here’s what he found out. The weapons factory ran into trouble when the Soviet Union collapsed and then the market economy came in and imposed its ‘infallible natural selection,’ to quote Svenhagen. There was simply no market for the factory’s shoddy ammunition. But apparently there was a huge bankruptcy inventory. No one knows what happened to it. But Interpol’s response is unequivocal: the mafia.”

Hultin paused. Possibly he was waiting to see the effect of his words. But no one reacted. Possibly he was just catching his breath. After a moment he went on.

“The Russian mafia is, as we know, a very heterogeneous organization. In reality we know far too little about it. It’s almost frightening how little, considering that it has made its way across the Baltic and dominates large parts of the underworld in Helsinki. There are indications that Stockholm is its next big market. In the largest faction are a bunch of crackpots who have seized upon the more extreme aspects of the market economy. Survival of the