‘What do you think?’
She looked at her watch. Three minutes to go.
‘You can’t use the Flying Squad. Half the hospital has been evacuated because we know she has explosives, which she has in fact already used once and threatens to use again. You can’t persuade her to do what you want, you’ve tried that, but she’s determined. There’s no time to look for other ways to get in there.’
The time, again. She continued:
‘She picked a closed room, a perfect one. For as long as she is in there with her gun aimed at the hostages, we simply get nowhere. What do the rules say? Sure, it would be seriously unprofessional to send someone down there on her terms. Is there any alternative? Not really. We have sent police officers in before, in exchange for hostages. There are three people down there who may live for a little longer.’
Just over two minutes to go. Ewert started on another circle. He had listened to what Hermansson had said and realised that he should have asked her opinion much earlier on. Later, when he had time, he would make a point of telling her so. He threw a quick glance at Bengt, who was still sitting there with the earphones on; Bengt, who had two small children and a lovely wife and a garden outside his house…
The radio went live.
Sven’s voice.
‘A gunshot. From in there. No question about it. Just one shot.’
Bengt heard this, but couldn’t take any more. He took the earphones off. The tearing feeling in his chest wouldn’t let up, intensified.
Ewert got hold of the earphones and shouted into the mike.
‘Christ almighty! What’s up? We’ve got two minutes to go. At least!’
Sven seemed to move about. The radio crackled.
‘Ewert.’
‘Speak.’
‘The mortuary door is open. One of the hostages is in the corridor. He or she is pulling at the arm of a body on the floor, dragging it out, same as before. It’s hard to make out the details from where I am, but I’m pretty sure the body is… lifeless.’
Bengt Nordwall was waiting in one of the dark basement corridors, the one furthest from the lift that led straight to the mortuary door. He was freezing. It was the middle of summer but the floor was cold against his bare feet, the air-conditioning too chilly for naked skin. He had undressed: plain underpants, a small microphone, and an earpiece mounted to his ear.
He had no illusions about what was awaiting him in the mortuary. He knew who she was, that it was a matter of life and death. For him. For the others. He was responsible for the fact that several people’s lives were in danger.
He turned round, as he had twice already, to check that the three armed policemen were right behind him.
‘Ewert. Over.’
He kept his voice low, trying to maintain contact for as long as possible.
‘Receiving, over.’
There was nothing to hold on to.
He wasn’t sure that he would be able to stand upright for much longer.
He thought of Lena, somewhere in their shared home, curled up with a book in her hand. He missed her. He wanted to sit beside her.
‘Just one thing, Ewert.’
‘Yes?’
‘Lena. I want you to tell her. If anything happens.’
He waited. No reply. He cleared his throat.
‘OK. I’m ready.’
‘Good.’
‘Ewert, I’ll go in there whenever you say.’
‘Now.’
‘Now. Is that right?’
‘Yes. Walk to the door and stop there. Hands above your head.’
‘Right. I’m walking.’
‘Bengt?’
‘Yes?’
‘Good luck.’
He walked noiselessly, bare feet on the concrete floor. So cold. The place was so cold. Standing in front of the mortuary door he was freezing. The Flying Squad guys were some ten or fifteen metres behind him. He waited, though not for long; he counted the seconds and less than half a minute had passed when a middle-aged man with grey hair came out. The man, who wore a white coat with a name tag saying Dr G. Ejder, stepped past Bengt without looking at him. A string of plastic explosive lay between his shoulders. Ejder held up a mirror, angling it so that whoever was standing just inside the door, breathing audibly but out of sight, could see that the new arrival was alone and undressed.
‘Ejder?’
Bengt whispered, but the doctor’s eyes didn’t focus on him. Ejder lowered his hand, waved a little with the mirror. They were to go inside.
Bengt didn’t move at once. Just one more moment.
Eyes closed.
Breathe in through the nose and out through the mouth. He shut out the fear. From now on his task was to observe. He was responsible for all their lives.
Ejder wanted to go in and seemed impatient. They stepped over the body on the floor. As they left the corridor Bengt pressed his shaking finger gently to the electronic gear in his ear, making sure it was still there.
He was freezing. He was sweating.
‘Ewert.’
‘Receiving, over.’
‘The hostage in the corridor is dead. No visible blood, so I can’t make out where she shot him. But the smell is odd, strong. Harsh.’
He saw her the moment he stepped inside. It was her. He recognised her. The
He tried to smile, but it felt like cramp in his lips.
She was standing near the middle of the room, holding a gun to the head of a young man in a white coat.
She was small, frail, her face swollen and scratched, one of her arms in plaster. She supported her weight heavily on one leg; the other must be painful, a damaged hip or knee.
She pointed at him. Spoke. ‘Bengt Nordwall.’
Her voice sounded as calm and collected as ever.
‘Turn around, Bengt Nordwall. Hands up all the time.’
He turned, observing the explosives covering every door frame.
One turn, then he faced her again. She nodded.
‘Good. Tell these people they can leave. Go through the door one by one.’
Ewert sat down on the floor of his temporary operations office and listened to the voices from the mortuary. John Edvardson was back at his side to translate the Russian. Hermansson had also got hold of a pair of earphones and sat at her trolley making notes of the absurd exchanges, attempting to alleviate the stress by giving her hands something to do.
Bengt was in there. He had done what Grajauskas had asked and told the hostages they could leave. Now he was the only one left.
Suddenly he spoke again in Swedish, his voice strained but managing to stay calm. Ewert recognised the tone
