Until Thy Wrath Be Past

somehow.”

Pantzare’s face clouded over.

“Why have you come to see me?”

“Because we need help,” Fjallborg said. “I don’t know anybody else who is familiar with how things were in those days.”

“It’s best not to talk about that,” Pantzare said. “Arvid should never have told you. What can he have been thinking?”

Standing up, he took an old photograph album from a bookshelf.

“Have a look at this,” he said.

He produced a newspaper cutting that had been hidden among the pages of the album. It was dated five years earlier.

Pensioners Robbed and Murdered, ran the headline. The article described how a ninety-six-year-old man and his wife aged eighty-two had been murdered in their home just outside Boden. Martinsson glanced through it and was disgusted to read that the woman had been found with a pillow tied over her face. She had been beaten up, choked and strangled, and “violated” after she died.

Violated, Martinsson thought. What do they mean by that?

As if he had read her thoughts, Pantzare said, “They shoved a broken bottle up her pussy.”

Martinsson carried on reading. The man had been alive at 6.00 that morning when the district nurse had come to give his wife her insulin injection. He had been badly beaten, punched and kicked, and died later in hospital. According to the article, the police had conducted a door-to-door, but without success. As far as anybody knew, the couple had not kept significant sums of money or other valuables in their home.

“He was one of us,” Pantzare said. “I knew him. And no bloody way was this a robbery, I’m absolutely certain of that. They were neo-Nazis or some other gang of right-wing extremists who had discovered that he had been a member of the resistance. Nobody’s safe even though it was so long ago. Youngsters impress old Nazis by doing things like that. They made the old man watch while they beat his wife to death. Why would a robber want to violate her? They wanted to torture him. They’re still looking for us. And if they find us…”

A shake of the head completed the sentence.

Of course he’s scared, Martinsson thought. It’s easier to risk your life when you’re young, healthy and immortal than when you’re shut up in a place like this and all you can do is wait.

“We simply had to do something,” Pantzare said, as if he were talking to himself. “The Germans were sending ship after ship to Lulea – lots of them never recorded in the port registers. Many of them left again with cargoes of iron ore, of course. And provisions and equipment and weapons and soldiers. The official line was that the soldiers were going on leave. The hell they were! I watched S.S. units marching on and off those ships. They took trains up to Norway, or were transported to the Eastern front. We often considered sabotage, but that would have meant declaring war on our own country. After all it was Swedish customs officials and police officers and troops guarding the ports and depots, and supervising the transports. If we’d been an occupied country, the whole situation would have been different. The Germans had far more problems in occupied Norway, with the local resistance movements and the inhospitable terrain, than in comparatively flat and so-called neutral Sweden.”

“So what can you tell us about Isak Krekula and his haulage company?” Fjallborg said.

“I don’t know. I mean, there were so many haulage contractors. But I do know that one of the haulage firm owners up here informed for the Germans. At least one, that is. We didn’t know who it was, but we were told that it was a haulier. That put the wind up us, because a large part of our work was building up and servicing Kari.”

“What was that?” Martinsson said.

“The Norwegian resistance movement, X.U., had an intelligence base on Swedish territory, not far from Tornetrask. It was called Kari. The radio station there was called Brunhild. Kari passed information from ten substations in northern Norway to London. It was powered by a wind turbine, but it was located in a hollow so you couldn’t see it unless you came to within 15 metres of it.”

“Are you saying that there was an intelligence base in Sweden?”

“There were several. Sepal bases on Swedish territory were run with the support of the British secret service and the American O.S.S., which eventually became the C.I.A. They specialized in intelligence, sabotage and recruitment, and training in weapons, mine-laying and explosives.”

“It was thanks to those services that the British were able to sink the Terpitz,” Fjallborg said to Martinsson.

“Both the radio stations and the wind turbines had to be maintained,” Pantzare said, “and they needed provisions and equipment. We needed hauliers, and it was always a dodgy business initiating a new one, especially as we knew there was a haulier who was a German informer. My God, once a new driver – a lad from Ranea – and I were on our way to Paltsa. We had a cargo of sub-machine-guns. We took a short cut via the Kilpisjarvi road, which the Germans controlled, and they stopped us at a roadblock. The driver suddenly started talking in German to the officer in charge. I thought he was informing on me: I didn’t even know he could speak German, and I was about to leap out of the lorry and run for my life. But the German officer just laughed and let us through, after we’d given him a few packets of cigarettes. The lad had simply told him a joke. I gave him a telling off afterwards. He could have told me that he spoke German, after all! Although of course there were quite a few who could in those days. It was the first foreign language in Swedish schools. It had the same sort of status that English has now. Anyway, everything went well on that occasion.”

Pantzare fell silent. A hunted look flitted across his face.

“Were there occasions when things didn’t go so well?” Martinsson asked.

Pantzare reached for the photograph album and opened it at a particular page.

He pointed at a photograph that looked as if it had been taken in the 1940s. It was a full-length picture of a young man. He was leaning against a pine tree. It was summer. Sunlight was reflected in his curly blond hair. He was casually dressed in a shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and loose-fitting trousers with the cuffs turned up untidily. He gripped his upper arm with one hand, while the other held a pipe.

“Axel Viebke,” Pantzare said. “He was a member of the resistance group.”

Sighing deeply, he continued.

“Three Danish prisoners of war escaped from a German cargo ship moored in Lulea harbour. They ended up with us. Axel’s uncle owned a hut used at haymaking time to the east of Savast. It was standing empty. He put them up there. They all died when the hut burned down. The newspapers called it an accident.”

“What do you think really happened?” Fjallborg said.

“I think they were executed. The Germans discovered they were there, and killed them. We never found out who had leaked the information.”

Pantzare grimaced.

Martinsson took the photograph album and turned a page.

There was a picture of Viebke and Pantzare standing on each side of a pretty woman in a flowered dress. She was very young. A nicely trimmed lock of hair hung down over one eye.

“Here you are again,” Martinsson said. “Who’s the girl?”

“Oh, just a bit of skirt,” Pantzare said, without looking at the photograph. “He had a weakness for the girls, did our Axel. He was always with a different one.”

Martinsson turned back to the photograph of Viebke by the pine tree. That page had been opened often; the edge was well-thumbed and darker than the others. The photographer’s shadow was visible.