and comfortable brown leather furniture is placed around an open fireplace. A polished brass samovar dominates a coffee table.
“Please excuse me for having no refreshments, but I’m hurrying to catch a flight in just an hour…”
Veronique looks very tense, and she wipes her hands over her skirt before she continues.
“I must… I have to tell you right away that I will never testify in court. I refuse,” she says, subdued. “If you force me, I will deny everything I’m about to tell you no matter what the consequences.”
She tries to straighten a tilted lampshade, but her fingers tremble so much it ends up just as crooked.
“I’m leaving without Pontus. He won’t be able to follow me,” she says. She looks at the floor. Her mouth twitches and she has to collect herself before she can continue.
“Penelope,” she says, looking at Penelope, “I understand you look down on Pontus as if he were pond scum. But he’s really not a bad person, he really isn’t.”
“I haven’t said-”
“Listen to me, please,” she says. “I just want to say that I love my husband very much, but I… his work… I don’t know what I think about his work. In the beginning I told myself people have always needed weapons to defend themselves. Arms have been traded as long as people have made them. And practically speaking, all countries must be armed for their own defense. But there’s defense and then there’s-”
She walks to the door, jerks it open, looks out, and then closes it again.
“Exporting weapons to fan flames in countries in the middle of a war… you shouldn’t be doing that.”
“No, you shouldn’t,” Penelope whispers.
“I understand my husband is a businessman,” Veronique continues. “Silencia really needs that contract. Sudan is a large country with an uncertain supply of ammunition for their automatic rifles. They use almost exclusively Fabrique Nationale, and Belgium is not sending them any. People keep an eye on Belgium, but since Sweden has never been a colonial power in Africa, we have an unsullied reputation in the region, and so on, and so forth. Pontus saw the possibilities and moved in quickly the minute civil war in Sudan ended. Raphael Guidi put the deal together. They were just about to sign the contract. Everything was ready to go when the arrest warrant for President al-Bashir was released.”
“Then it would break international law,” Saga says.
“Everyone knew that. But Raphael would not cancel the deal. He said only that he would find a new interested party. It took a few months, but then he declared that the army in Kenya would be the recipient for the Sudan arms. Same amount of ammunition, same price, and so on. I tried to talk Pontus out of it. I told him it was too apparent that this ammunition would go to Sudan, but Pontus said Kenya was just making a smart move. It was a good deal for them and they needed the ammunition. I don’t think he believed what he was saying, I really don’t, but he passed the whole thing over to Carl Palmcrona and the ISP. If Palmcrona signs it, it’ll be all right, was Pontus’s explanation and-”
“An easy way to wash your hands of it,” Penelope says.
“So that’s why I took that photograph. I just wanted you to know who met in that private box on that night. I walked in and told Pontus that I wasn’t feeling well and needed to call a taxi. While I prepared to do that, I simply snapped the picture on my cell phone.”
“Brave of you,” Penelope says.
“But I didn’t know how dangerous! Or I never would have done it,” Veronique cries. “I was angry at Pontus and wanted him to change his mind. I left the Alte Oper in the middle of the concert and looked at the picture in the taxi. It was crazy. The buyer was represented by Agathe al-Haji, who is the military adviser to Sudan’s president. I mean, that ammunition was going to be pumped into a civil war that no one wanted to acknowledge.”
“Genocide,” Penelope whispers.
“When we got back home in Sweden, I pleaded with Pontus to get out of that deal… I can’t forget the strange way he looked at me. He said it was impossible. He told me he’d signed a Paganini contract, and when I saw his expression, I was frightened. He was terrified. I didn’t dare keep that picture in my phone. I printed out only one copy and then erased it from my memory card and my hard drive. Then I sent the photograph to you.
“I had no idea what would happen,” Veronique says quietly. “How could I? I am so terribly sorry, I can’t tell you how…”
They are all silent now. Splashing noises come from the pool.
“What is a Paganini contract?” asks Joona.
“Raphael owns several priceless instruments,” Veronique says. “He collects ones played by Paganini himself, more than a hundred years ago. He keeps some of them in his home and others he loans to gifted musicians and…”
She runs her hands nervously over her neatly styled hair before she continues. “This business about Paganini, I’ve never really understood it. Pontus told me that Raphael connects Paganini to the contract. He says that Paganini contracts last forever, or that’s what Raphael says. Nothing is written on paper… Pontus told me that Raphael prepares everything precisely. He has all the numbers in his head; he knows all the logistics, and exactly how and when each deal will be carried out. He tells each one of them what is demanded of them and how much they will earn from the deal. Once you’ve kissed his hand, so to speak, there is no way out. You can’t escape, you can’t be protected, you can’t even die.”
“Why not?” asks Joona.
“Raphael is… I don’t know how to put it, he’s… he’s a horrible man,” she says, her lips trembling. “He manages to extract… he deceives them… everyone he works with… he gets them to tell him their worst nightmare.”
“How?” asks Saga.
“I don’t know. Pontus said it. He says Raphael has the ability,” she replies seriously.
“What does Raphael mean by ‘nightmare’?” asks Joona.
“I asked Pontus if he’d told Raphael his nightmare-of course I asked him that,” she said with a pained look. “But Pontus wouldn’t answer and I have no idea what to believe.”
They are silent again. Large, wet patches of sweat spread under the arms of Veronique Salman’s white blouse.
“You won’t be able to stop Raphael,” Veronique finally says. “But maybe you can prevent this ammunition from reaching Darfur.”
“We shall,” Saga promises.
“You must understand… it’s the lack of ammunition that keeps the lid on there after the election… I mean… if it heats up again, all aid organizations will flee Darfur.”
Veronique Salman glances at her watch and tells Joona that she has to head for the airport soon. She goes to the window. The multicolored light filtering in on her face reveals an almost dreamy expression, as if she’s shifted a heavy load.
“My boyfriend is dead,” Penelope says abruptly. She wipes her cheeks. “My sister is dead. I don’t even know how many others have died…”
Veronique Salman turns to face her again.
“Penelope, who could I turn to? I only had the photograph. I thought you, of all people, would be able to identify the people in the private box,” she explains. “You would have known the reason why Agathe al-Haji was there buying ammunition. You’ve been to Darfur, you have contacts there, and you’re a peace activist and-”
“You were wrong,” Penelope says. “I didn’t recognize Agathe al-Haji. I knew of her, of course, but I didn’t know what she looked like.”
“I couldn’t send it to the police or the newspapers. They wouldn’t understand what it meant, not without an explanation, and I couldn’t explain. How could I? One thing I did know was that I was afraid to have anything to do with it, so I sent it to you. I purged it completely. I knew I could never reveal my connection to any of this.”
“But now you have,” Joona points out.
“Yes, because I… I…”
“Why did you change your mind?”
“Because I’m leaving the country and must…”
She looks down at her hands.
“What happened?” Joona asks gently.
“Nothing,” she says, but she is holding back tears.
