Bad Blood: A Crime Novel (39 page)

Jorge Chavez slaved away at Justine’s notes. He mobilized all his energy and all his mathematical knowledge to decipher the two that Justine Lindberger had left on her desk at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs: “Blue Viking” and “orphlinse.” After taking detours through multitudes of conceivable codes, he went the direct route and managed to find a few pubs in various parts of Sweden called Blue Viking: Café Blue Viking in Härnösand, Blue Viking Restaurant & Bar in Halmstad, Café Blue Viking in Visby, and food stands called Blue Viking in Teckomatorp and Karlshamn. Härnösand, Halmstad, Visby, and Karlshamn were all harbor cities.

When it came to the other note, he cursed himself that it took him so long to stick a period in “orphlinse” so that it became “orphlin.se”—that is, an address for a Swedish Web site. It was the Swedish branch of Orpheus Life Line, an international humanitarian organization with special focus on Iraq. The song of Orpheus, said the program description, was so poignant and strong that he had been able to sing the dead up out of the kingdom of the underworld. This was the organization’s goal. At the moment they were engaged in the situation in Iraq after the Gulf War and the blockades and the weapon-inspector crises—it bore a frightening resemblance to a kingdom of the dead. The Web site listed a whole series of matters in which human rights had been disregarded. Apparently the organization kept its members secret, so that it could work fairly undisturbed in Saddam’s domain. Chavez wondered why Justine had had the Orpheus Life Line’s Web address on her desk. Did she have a general interest in the Islamic world, or was there some more specific reason?

Viggo Norlander arrived at Östermalmshallen along with the two rather shamefaced colleagues whom Justine had eluded. Detective Werner had been stationed in the surveillance vehicle on Östermalmstorg, keeping watch down Humlegårdsgatan, while Detective Larsson had been, quote, “glued like a shadow” to Justine. Norlander’s investigation revealed that this strange metaphor had concealed a distance of fifteen yards, which was rather a lot among the aisles and stalls of a busy market. Larsson had stood just inside the entrance doors and pointed into the hall, where the most surprising animal parts hovered like defective helicopters in the aromatically complex air. Justine had disappeared somewhere on the far left-hand side. So there were three possible stalls from which she could have gone underground: a classic Swedish delicatessen, a small Thai restaurant, and a café that served coffee in tiny cups. After doing a few routine checks that had not been performed earlier, Norlander realized that she could only have escaped via the café. She could have hidden temporarily in the delicatessen or the Thai restaurant, but only the café, via a long aisle, had direct contact with the world outside. Norlander followed the aisle, keeping his gaze on the shamefaced Larsson every moment. They emerged some distance down Humlegårdsgatan, where a wet storm wind met them. Norlander strode over to Werner in the car and gave him the same evil eye that he had given Larsson. Then he went back inside and, without a word, took the violently protesting café owner with him to police headquarters.

Now Fawzi Ulaywi from Baghdad was sweating in one of the interrogation rooms, as the police watched him through a one-way mirror. “He must have unlocked it for her,” Norlander said. “He must have followed her into the back room and unlocked the door. He works alone in the café, and the door to the aisle that leads to Humlegården was locked.”

“What is he?” said Chavez, studying the printout of Orpheus
Life Line’s Web site. “An Iraqi? Isn’t this about Saudi Arabia anymore?”

“What did we say about the harbors?” said Hultin. “Which ones have popped up several times?”

“ ‘Several’ is probably an exaggeration,” said Söderstedt, “but Blue Viking and the witnesses would point to Halmstad, Gotland, and possibly Karlskrona/Karlshamn, in Blekinge County. Six vessels will leave Halmstad in the next twenty-four hours, three from Visby, and sixteen from Blekinge.”

“I don’t think we have anything that makes one more likely than the next,” said Holm. “Shall we split up?”

“When is the next departure?” Hultin asked. “And where the hell is Hjelm?”

“In Bro,” said Holm.

“It’s four-thirty,” said Söderstedt. “We have a few departures left today. The next is
Vega
, departing Karlshamn for Venezuela at six o’clock; then
Bay of Pearls
, departing Halmstad for Australia at seven forty-five; then
Lagavulin
, depating Visby for Scotland at eight-thirty. Those are the next ones coming up.”

“We need something more, something to tilt us in one direction,” said Hultin. “Just a little more testimony about one of the places. Jorge and Arto can help Kerstin. Press the relatives. Viggo, you and I will talk to our friend the café owner.”

Hultin and Norlander went in to see Fawzi Ulaywi, who was sweating a great deal. His stubborn facial expression concealed terror, as though he had been in this situation before and was trying to avoid thinking about what had happened then.

“My café,” he said. “My café is standing there completely empty. Anyone could take my things and my money.”

“We have competent guards there for the rest of the day,” Norlander said sardonically. “Officers Larsson and Werner.” He remained by the door looking large and brutal.

Hultin sat down across from Fawzi Ulaywi and asked calmly, “Why did you help Justine Lindberger escape earlier today?”

“I haven’t done anything,” Ulaywi said single-mindedly. “I don’t understand.”

“Have you heard of the organization Orpheus Life Line? It is active in Iraq.”

Ulaywi fell silent. A breeze of worry blew across his face and left furrows behind. It was obvious that he was thinking things over, carefully. “It’s been ten years since I left Iraq,” he said finally. “I don’t know anything about what goes on there today.”

“Are these Orpheus people involved in the nuclear weapons affair?”

Ulwaywi gaped wildly at him and seemed to be trying to put the erratic information together.

“You have to tell us now,” Hultin continued. “It’s far too important to play games.”

“Just torture me. I’ve survived it before.”

Hultin looked at Norlander, who blinked uncertainly. He wasn’t planning to torture anyone—what had Hultin’s expression meant?

Hultin continued calmly, “I’m going to say the names of a few Swedish harbors. Tell me what they mean to you. Halmstad. Karlskrona. Visby. Karlshamn.”

Terrified that ten years of nightmares were about to be made real again, Ulaywi tried so hard to think, he creaked.

“Halmstad,” he said at last. “A woman came to me in the café and said she was being followed by a rapist. I helped her escape. She said something about having to get away—I think she said Halmstad.”

Norlander and Hultin exchanged glances. Hultin nodded, and they went out into the corridor. As they spoke, they watched Ulaywi through the one-way mirror. He was still sweating but may also have looked a bit satisfied.

“He’s part of it,” said Hultin. “He’s somewhere in the line of smugglers. He won’t say any more. We can cross off Halmstad.”

“Cross it off?” Norlander burst out. “But—”

“He’s trying to throw us off. Look at him. That’s not a man who talks.”

Hultin went to the guys manning the phones. They were spread out over three rooms, so he had to repeat three times, “Blekinge or Visby. Not Halmstad.”

Then he took out his cell phone and dialed. “Paul? Where are you?”

“Norrtull,” said Hjelm from within the heart of electronics. “I’ve destroyed the familial peace in a number of Bro households. Never more will the wives trust their Hermans. I got a licking from an angry wife.”

“No bites?”

“None of these Hermans can reasonably have had anything to do with Justine Lindberger from Upper Östermalm. It’s been a complete waste of time.”

“Come home quickly. We’re down to possibly Visby, Karlskrona, or Karlshamn. Possibly.”

“Okay.”

Holm came running out of her room and yelled, “Aunt Gretha had a cell phone number that didn’t exist anywhere else.” She held out a piece of paper with a number on it.

Hultin hung up on Hjelm and dialed the number.

“Yes?” they could hear faintly from the receiver. A woman’s voice.

“Justine?” Hultin said.

“Who is this?”

“Orpheus,” he chanced. “Where are you?”

Justine Lindberger was silent for a moment. Then she said, “Password?”

Hultin looked at Holm and Norlander. They shook their heads.

“Blue Viking,” said Hultin.

“Fuck,” said Justine, and hung up.

“Shit,” said Hultin.

“Background noise?” asked Kerstin Holm.

Hultin shook his head. He dialed the number again. No answer.

He went into his office and closed the door. It was quarter to five. The freighter
Vega
would leave Karlshamn in just over an hour. They would miss it. The information that pointed to Karlshamn was extremely vague: just a friend’s suggestion that Justine had been in its neighbor city Karlskrona, which had a bar called Blue Viking, which should perhaps be put under surveillance immediately, but then he would have to bring in the Blekinge police, and how would they explain the situation? He didn’t even really understand it himself. Should he let
Vega
get away or get the provincial police on it? He remained in his room, his shoulders pressed down by an endless weight.

Meanwhile Kerstin Holm and Viggo Norlander were still in the corridor.

Everything seemed foggy. Where were Hultin’s thoughts heading? they wondered.

Hjelm showed up with a black eye. “Don’t ask. Women,” he said cryptically.

“Bro,” Kerstin said, pointing at him. “There was something on the tip of my tongue about Bro.”

“Bro, bro, breja,”
Norlander said, quoting a children’s rhyme. He seemed to have given up. He threw a bitter glance at Fawzi Ulaywi. “He’s sitting here, the fate of the universe resting on his shoulders, and he’s not going to talk.”

“Who is that?” said Hjelm.

“Isn’t Bro a pretty common place name?” said Holm.

“He’s the one who helped Justine escape,” Norlander told Hjelm. “An Iraqi. One of the people who hide behind Orpheus Life Line, a fake human rights organization. Presumably they’re fundamentalist spies. He’s our only link to the warheads.”

“They’re control devices,” said Hjelm, “for nuclear warheads.”

“Did anyone hear me?” said Holm.

“He ought to be speared on his warheads,” said Norlander. “Wouldn’t we be morally justified in going in there and pressing him? Hard?”

“The way Wayne Jennings does?” said Kerstin Holm. “Has he transformed us into copies of himself? So quickly?”

“What was it you said?” said Paul Hjelm.

“We’ve become the Kentucky Killer’s marionettes,” she said.

“Before that. About Bro.”

“Isn’t Bro a pretty common place name?”

“Are you saying I was in the wrong Bro? Where are the other ones?”

“I don’t know. It was just a guess.”

“If Herman is a lover and they meet there every Tuesday, it can’t be that far away.”

“But maybe Herman isn’t a lover. Arto pressed Justine, surprised her with his little copy-machine trick, and she had to make something up quickly. Maybe Herman was the right name, but she covered it up with the lie that he was her lover.”

They half-ran into Holm’s office and took out a road atlas. Bro in Uppland, Bro in Värmland, Bro in Bohuslän—and Bro on Gotland.

“On Gotland. Only a few miles from Visby,” said Holm. “A little church village.”

Norlander started up the computer and got into the large telephone registry. There were two Hermans in the little Bro northwest of Visby.

Hjelm unlocked his cell phone. Holm took it from him and dialed the first of the two numbers.

“Bengtsson,” said a ringing Gotland accent.

“Herman,” said Kerstin, “it’s Justine.”

It was quiet. The longer the silence went on, the higher their hopes rose.

“Why are you calling again?” said Herman Bengtsson at last. “Has something happened?”

“Just double-checking,” Kerstin croaked out. “I’m on my way.”

She ended the call, then clenched her fist for a second. And then they ran in to Hultin.

The helicopter took off five minutes later from the platform atop police headquarters.
Decently fast
, Hultin thought, as he sat there next to Norlander, reading through his papers. “The freighter
Lagavulin
will leave Visby harbor at twenty-thirty. Right now it’s quarter past five. We ought to get there in plenty of time.”

“Isn’t Lagavulin a malt whiskey?” said Hjelm.

“The best,” said Chavez. “Extremely smoky and tarry.”

The last islands of the archipelago were visible below them, drowning in the pouring rain; Hjelm thought he recognized Utö. Then it was open sea, a windswept sea, almost whiter than black. The helicopter swayed and reeled in the storm. Hjelm glanced at the pilot; he didn’t like the look on his face. Nor was Norlander’s face particularly confidence inspiring—he grabbed a helmet that was hanging on the wall of the helicopter and threw up into it. Hjelm was happy that he had not been the receptacle of choice.

Others were feeling ill, too. The pilot took out some plastic bags to protect the remaining supply of helmets. Arto Söderstedt’s white skin developed a mint-green tinge, and what came up in Hjelm’s own heave was the same color. Only Hultin and Holm retained their stomach contents.

Just east of Visby, a mediocre collection of police officers streamed out onto the hidden helicopter platform, where two civilian rental cars awaited them. They stood for a second, letting themselves be washed by the rain—it was surprisingly cleansing. Their facial colors returned to normal. They were alive again and ready to find out what Justine Lindberger had waiting for them down at the harbor.

They circled around Visby and glided down to the harbor along Färjeleden. They passed the large Gotland ferries and approached
Lagavulin
. The vessel lay some way out on the pier at the northern breakwater, heaving against a pile of car tires.

Lagavulin
wasn’t really a freighter. She was too small, more like a large fishing boat. She was alone, way out there, and there was no sign of life within her. A flock of large gulls circled the ship, like vultures around a cadaver in the desert. Out on the Baltic, a large oil tanker went by, its lanterns gleaming weakly through the storm; swaying slowly, it passed like a large, cold, inaccessible sea monster. The sky felt unusually low, as though the thick rain clouds had come down to lick the surface of the earth, as though they were witnessing the great flood. Was there great, pure, sun-drenched clearness on the other side of the clouds? Or was that just a utopian dream? Was there even room anymore for clarity?