Misterioso

“And you let us struggle our way through the whole damn Russian mafia lead without giving us a single piece of information?”

“We’ve been working two lines the whole time,” said Doos, “the Russian mafia lead and the Somali lead. Both of these investigations are top secret, matters of national security.”

“What the hell is the Somali lead?” shouted Hultin.

“Sonya Shermarke, for God’s sake!” exclaimed Doos. “The cleaning woman that you’ve totally ignored. The one who ‘found,’ as she said, Director Carlberger’s body. It turns out that she, along with a whole group of potential Somali terrorists, have been living in Sweden illegally. She pretended to be a cleaning woman and finagled her way into the homes of many influential families in Djursholm. We’ve been interrogating her and her cohorts for over a month now. And soon we’ll have them.”

“Oh, now I remember,” said Hultin acidly. “That’s right! Seven Somali children, their five Somali parents, and a pastor from Spanga. What an elite band! Sentenced to be deported, terrified, and crammed into a little two-room apartment in Tensta, hidden by the local Swedish church. What a great coup. Seven children. Have you been interrogating them too for a month in your basement dungeon?”

“Do you know what a modern-day terrorist can use children for?” Doos said in all seriousness.

“For the sake of my incipient ulcer, let’s drop the subject.” Hultin looked conciliatory. “What have you managed to make of the blinded Treplyov in Algotsmala?”

“Clearly a settling of accounts in the underworld,” said Grahn. “Somebody wanted to take over Igor and Igor’s territories. Mafia factions from the Soviet Union today are conducting a more or less open war for power in the Swedish underworld.”

“And the connection to the Power Murders?” said Hultin mildly.

“We’re investigating the links between the Somalis and the Russians. We think it’s a joint conspiracy based on old Communist values.”

Hultin stretched his back, still with a good-natured expression on his face. Soderstedt and Norlander feared the side effects of a well-aimed headbutt inside such a small space. Instead Hultin delivered a metaphorical headbutt.

“For over a month you’ve known that Igor and Igor were an important focus of our investigation,” he said gently. “If nothing else, you must have seen the announcement of the manhunt published in the newspapers. You have willfully and intentionally misled what the head of the NCP, as recently as yesterday on TV, has called the most important investigation in Sweden since the Palme case; in addition, you used the NCP for a highly irregular, highly illegal cover-up. All of these acts are not only a dereliction of duty, they are felonies. I’m going straight to the head of the NCP to inform him of your illegal activities, and I anticipate that both of you will be off the force by this afternoon, latest. You can start packing right now.”

“Are you threatening us?” Doos stood up.

“I prefer to think of it as a promise.” Hultin smiled politely.

31

Gunnar Nyberg was being fed through a tube. It protruded from the bandages that covered him almost entirely from the crown of his head to his neck, and large portions of soup were running through it. His eyes were the only things visible, and they were beaming with joy.

“As I’ve just told Nyberg,” the doctor explained to the three visitors, “we’ve determined that, in spite of everything, his throat should heal completely. The bullet missed the carotid artery by half an inch; it missed the larynx by about the same distance, but it passed through the upper part of the esophagus, just below the pharynx. He’ll soon be able to sing again, but it will take a while before he can eat normally. In addition, his left zygomatic bone and left maxillary bone were shattered. He suffered a significant concussion and a number of bruises and burns on his face, and on the area from his shoulders up. He has four broken ribs, a fractured right arm, and a wide assortment of minor cuts and burns over most of his body. But,” said the doctor, “he seems to be in good spirits.” And then he left them alone.

Nyberg had obtained a little blackboard on which he could write messages in his wobbly left-handed script. “Igor?” he wrote.

Hjelm nodded. “Alexander Bryusov. That idiotic tackle you made on his car uncovered the whole connection between Viktor X and Lovisedal, a very real connection. Bryusov is apparently going to be the star witness.”

Nyberg wrote, “Not our man, right?”

Hjelm had to ask Chavez and Holm for help in deciphering his scrawl.

“No,” said Chavez. “Bryusov isn’t our man. Our man is an ordinary Swedish bank teller by the name of Goran Andersson.”

The twitching under the wads of bandages could almost be interpreted as a laugh.

“We’re conducting a nationwide manhunt for him now,” said Hjelm. “But you may be back at work before he’s arrested.”

Nyberg shook his bandages emphatically. The tubes that connected him to the surrounding machinery swayed alarmingly. One apparatus began beeping, as if in fear. He wrote, “Damn it all, no, you’ll get him in a couple of days.” Then he erased the words and wrote a new message: “Missa.”

“Missa what?” said Hjelm.

“Is there something we’ve missed?” asked Chavez.

“Ah.” Kerstin Holm, who had been standing at Nyberg’s feet, walked over and sat down on the chair next to his bed. She took his hand, the only patch of skin visible in all that whiteness. She hummed a pure and clear note for ten seconds, then she began to sing. It was the lead alto part in Palestrina’s Missa papae Marcelli.

Nyberg closed his eyes. Hjelm and Chavez just stood there, motionless.

When they returned to police headquarters, Hjelm found a fax lying on his desk. Since Hultin was waiting for them in Supreme Central Command, he cast only a quick glance at it as he headed out of the room. Not until he was out in the hallway did his brain register the name of the sender: Detective Superintendent Erik Bruun of the Huddinge police force. Hjelm went back to his desk.

“I thought it best that you hear this from me rather than in the media,” Bruun had written. “Last night Dritero Frakulla committed suicide in his cell at Hall Prison. At least now his family will be allowed to stay. Don’t let this affect your work. You were just doing your job. Warm wishes, Bruun.”

Last night, thought Hjelm, holding the fax in his hand. What a strange night. Gunnar Nyberg was shot in Lidingo, Ulf Axelsson was murdered in Goteborg, Dritero Frakulla killed himself in Norrkoping, and Goran Andersson was identified in Algotsmala. And all of these events were vaguely connected.

What a small country Sweden is, he thought, realizing that he ought to be thinking about something else.

He was still holding the fax when he entered the room of Supreme Central Command. The other members of the A-Unit were already there. It was the first time he’d seen Hultin since they’d returned from Vaxjo.

“An outstanding job in Vaxjo.” Hultin gave him a searching look.

Excellent job, thought Hjelm, and for a moment he felt as if he was sinking into a pile of shit and had to stand on top of Dritero Frakulla’s body in order to keep his nose above the surface. He shook off the image, let go of the sweaty fax, and sat down.

“Thank you,” he said.

“So outstanding that I’m even going to ignore the time between when you found out the perp’s name and when you called in your report.”

Hultin’s praise was seldom one-sided.

“Okay,” he continued calmly. “The surveillance effort has been moved from the Lovisedal board members in 1991 to the Sydbanken board in 1990. Daggfeldt, Strand-Julen, Carlberger, Brandberg, and Axelsson are all dead. Unfortunately, the board included an additional twelve individuals. Eight in Stockholm, two in Malmo, one in Orebro, and one in Halmstad. The sole member from Goteborg has already been taken out. Of the twelve remaining