Anger Mode (20 page)

Tor raised an eyebrow and looked dubiously at Jerry. Had he lost it? Was he in shock? Less than fifteen minutes ago, they had been in the middle of a shootout that could have cost them their lives. Now Jerry was sitting there and saying it was a good thing. Tor did not understand anything.

“What’s so good?” Tor asked sceptically.

“Who knew that we would be on Odengatan today and at exactly this time?” Jerry cried out.

“Nobody knew about it,” Tor answered. “I haven’t talked to anybody, unless you have?”

“One person knew,” Jerry concluded.

“Who then?” Tor wondered and immediately thought of the go-between.

“The bloke who gave us the job, of course. It was the bastard who told us to visit that bloody loser and to strong-arm that evidence from him. He was also the one who told us which day and what time to do the job.”

“So what?”

“Don’t ‘so what?’ me,” Jerry said. “He screwed us. So now, we can screw him good and proper. Are you up for it?”

“Dunno,” Tor hesitated, trying unsuccessfully to follow his logic.

“Or we can just walk away from this job now without getting a bad reputation. And toss this key on the rubbish tip,” Jerry said, holding up Jörgen’s key to the safety deposit box.

“But why did he try to set us up? What would he stand to gain?” Tor asked and groped after the cigarette pack in his inside pocket. He was dying for a ciggie now.

“I have no fucking idea. But we’ll find out,” Jerry said, with eyes like red-hot coals.

“It could have been a trap set by Haxhi,” Tor suggested and stuck a new
Prince
in his mouth. Just as he was about to light it, he stopped himself. Jerry was angrily watching the cigarette hanging from the corner of Tor’s mouth. Tor sighed and instead got out and sat on the wing of the car, where he concentrated on blowing smoke rings while he thought.

Jerry’s brow was deeply furrowed. Certainly, he and Tor could still clean up this mess with their reputation intact. First, their go-between Omar would have to vouch for the evidence before they could send the journalist to swim with the fishes. Tor and Jerry had been given a free hand to handle the job in their own way. The important thing was that they succeeded. One hundred thousand up front had not been a problem. Jerry would have to talk with Omar, who had given them the job. He needed to get directly in touch with the client. Without Omar’s involvement.

AFTER HAVING BEEN x-rayed and wheeled in on a bed to a room on one of the wards, Jörgen quickly began to take stock of his situation. The first things he was sure of were a broken nose, an agonizing headache and an eye that was blocked up tighter than an Egyptian pharoah’s tomb – perhaps permanently, if the radiologist’s reaction was anything to go on. Furthermore, the police mole and God-knows-who-else were after his scalp. It seemed as if the whole human race had turned against him. He had finally incurred the wrath of God for his sins. The only positive thing he could put in the equation was that his skull seemed to have stayed intact. Dr André had cheerfully informed him of that fact before he finished his rounds.

THREE UNITS OF the National SWAT team, the NI, were deployed around the rented property on Atlasgatan. Team Alpha, which was the main force, would be performing the flat search itself. To avoid destroying any evidence, and as this was classed as a high-risk operation, it was decided to strike hard and without warning. Team Bravo would cut off any escape routes and had therefore sealed the building perimeter as tight as a drum. The third team, Delta, would provide backup for the other two teams. The assault would take place at 03.30 hours exactly. It had taken less than three minutes to deploy the teams and Martin Borg waited impatiently. Two minutes to go. Clouds of condensation rose from his mouth in the chilly morning air. He was content with all the preparations that his group at the Counter-Terrorism Unit had made. First, snatching the investigation from the amateurs at County CID, then planning and leading the operation with NI and, finally, being on the brink of an operation that would probably turn the tide in his favour. The fire smouldering inside him flared up when he thought of how these dirty animals poisoned the Free World with their twisted ideology. The Taliban were the worst of them all. Directly after 9/11, an American Air Force general had said that he would bomb Afghanistan back to the Stone Age.

Obviously, he was unaware that the Taliban had already taken the country back to that era.

The walkie-talkie crackled into life.

“Alpha, breach.” Two short words came from the task-force leader.

Martin was jolted back to reality. The time had come and the leader of the NI task force had given the signal to enter the building. Now we will show them how a democracy works at its best, he thought, and squeezed the charm that he wore around his neck.

“Affirmative, breach,” the Alpha-team leader answered.

Police officers in black uniforms and ski masks were standing pressed up against the wall by the stairwell. Three of them ran towards the flat door with a battering ram. In less than six seconds, they had forced the door open. Two more police officers rushed to the doorway and fired in tear gas and stun grenades, which exploded with loud bangs. With MP5 submachine guns drawn, the rest of the team stormed into the block of flats, shouting over each other that they were from the police, in case anybody came to another conclusion.

Alpha-team leader Anton Edvinsson was the first to enter the flat. The smoke from the tear gas had spread out like a fog, which made it impossible to see more than an arm’s length in front. He slowly swept the air in front of him with his MP5. The light from the torch attached to his submachine gun cut through the smoke like a laser beam. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his colleagues following behind him and flanking him at the side of the hallway. He signalled to his wingman to cover the door that was ahead of them. He was going to open a glass door that seemed to lead into the living room. His colleague moved quickly forwards and positioned himself to the left of the glass door. Edvinsson tested the handle, which was unlocked. He took a deep breath and threw open the door, shouting “Police!” so loudly that his voice almost cracked. Sweeping the room ahead of him with the MP5, he rushed in, together with the officer who had been covering him. Two policemen quickly moved up behind them. When the room was secured, Edvinsson positioned himself in front of yet another door, again backed up by a colleague. It was like ballet. Their pattern of movements was well rehearsed and each advance had a purpose. Nothing was left to chance. Even though the element of surprise was important, safety was always first.

Edvinsson tore open the unlocked door and suddenly found himself facing a bearded man in a nightshirt.

WHAT IS TAKING such a long time? Martin Borg thought impatiently and watched the backs of the NI task-force controllers sitting by their monitors. He drummed his fingers against his thigh and threw a glance at his colleague Ove Jernberg, who seemed to be completely oblivious to the gravity of the situation. That did not surprise him. Ove was an idealist; he had drifted through life and had never known which side of the fence he should stand on. He changed principles like a teenager swaps clothes. Martin wanted to believe that he had been successful in converting him to his reality. But he was not completely sure that he had succeeded.

Even more men, most of them with beards, stood lined up along the wall. They all had their hands in the air.

“Down!” Edvinsson roared and pointed with military precision at the floor as adrenaline pumped through his body. He kept the MP5 aimed at the man standing closest. Only when some officers crossed his firing line did he lower his weapon. The men were getting down onto the floor, but apparently not quickly enough – they were thrown on their stomachs by the charging police. Their hands were handcuffed behind their backs.

“All five subjects secured,” the police radio finally reported.

Martin immediately felt a hundred kilos lighter. The few minutes of radio silence had been infinitely long. He had felt a knot growing in his gut. Not out of fear of one of his men being injured or even killed. That did not concern him. He had been afraid that there would be no one in the flat. The Surveillance Unit had a habit of not being able to keep track of the location of those they were monitoring, even when they had beards and were wearing nightshirts. Lack of resources was the usual, tired excuse. So he was relieved that the subjects had been secured. He was looking forward to the subsequent interrogations, when he would break them one by one. He could not wait to get started.

Members of SÄPO’s forensics team had just arrived when Martin marched in through the demolished front door. The door frame had been ripped off its hinges by the force of the battering ram. They have taken off the kid gloves, he thought, and smiled contentedly. The team leader, Anton Edvinsson, stood in the hallway with his helmet under his arm and the ski mask pulled upwards into a woolly hat.

“Did they offer any resistance?” Martin asked.

“No, they just looked surprised,” Edvinsson answered and took a swig from his water bottle. “So would I, if someone broke in and rammed a machine gun in my face at three-thirty in the morning.”

“Anything else of significance?” Martin asked dryly.

“Check out their study,” Edvinsson suggested.

“Study?” Martin said, surprised.

After entering the flat, Martin understood what he meant. The room Edvinsson called a study was crammed full, with bookshelves, desks and different types of containers. Drawings illustrating buildings lay rolled out on long desks lined up along the walls.

“Blueprints!” one of SÄPO’s technicians concluded, bending over one of the desks. He wore blue nylon overalls with a hood and a white mask that not only effectively blocked bacteria but also turned his voice into static.

After teasing his way into overalls and putting on his face mask, Martin went into the room.

“Alf?” he asked and approached the technician.

“Not quite,” the man answered. “Peter Danielsson. Alf and I are like identical twins in these suits.”

“What am I looking at?” Martin asked and stared at a drawing.

“Detailed blueprints of buildings,” Danielsson answered. “The majority seem to be mosques.”

“Which mosques then?”

“Not a clue,” Danielsson answered, shaking his head. “But the drawings are in Swedish. If you look at the dates in the headers, most of them are no more than a few years old. Perhaps these are ongoing construction projects.”

“Nothing else?” Martin asked, disappointed.

“No, not so far,” Danielsson answered.

Martin looked troubled. Mere drawings of mosques would not sit well with the prosecutor. Whatever their purpose, this case would never hold up in court. It was, after all, not illegal to build mosques if one had building permission. He could still claim that the group had received terrorist funds. But until the terrorist prince was on the US blacklist, this would also be a dead end. The most he could do would be to freeze the group’s assets for a while, but there would be hell to pay when the prince found out. The royal family in Saudi Arabia would send the yanks to read the riot act to the primitive Vikings in the north. If there were no traces of Drug-X in the flat, there was only one way forwards.

“ABDULLAH KHALIL: THIRTY-EIGHT years old and born in Sudan. Came to Sweden as a refugee eight years ago. Is that correct?” Martin Borg asked and looked at the bearded man facing him. It was six-thirty in the morning and Martin felt euphoric. He was not the slightest bit tired despite the fact that a full day had passed since he last slept. He took a large sip of coffee and grimaced when he realized that the coffee had gone cold.

“So you don’t want a lawyer to represent you because you don’t accept our democratic form of government and all that it represents in terms of rights and obligations. Is that correct?” he continued his interrogation. He already knew what the answer would be.

The man was silent. He did not move a muscle, instead looking down at the table as if he was praying.

“What are you using the blueprints for?”

The man looked up and laughed contemptuously.

“Well?” Martin asked impatiently.

“If we have done anything that displeases the great Allah, we shall be punished,” the man began slowly and with a heavy accent. “And only then, not by you unbelievers. Who are you to forbid us to build mosques, God’s houses?”

“We will ask the questions and you will answer. This is how interrogations are usually done, if you didn’t already know that. What were you using the drawings for?” Martin repeated.

“That is between us and Allah,” the man answered defiantly. “We are under no obligation to tell you anything.”

The man fell silent.

“Who owns the drawings you had in the flat?” Martin continued.

“Allah does,” the man continued his defiance.

“Most likely, he does, but who got hold of them? Surely not a task for Allah,” Martin joked, trying to start a conversation with the man.

“Allah creates everything in this world. Everything you see around you is created by the Almighty.”

Martin sighed and rubbed his face. He was getting tired of this.

“It’s late and I’m getting fed up with listening to your mindless ranting about Allah. We can easily find out how you came into possession of the drawings and which buildings they represent. I hardly think that God or Allah is the owner of the blueprints. Once again, what were you going to use the drawings for?”