Hostage (6 page)

‘This is nothing,’ she said firmly to Alex. ‘It’s a bluff. The bomb threats, parliament, the whole thing. This is just someone who wants to wind us up. Cause havoc. And
take a look around. It’s hard to say that he or she hasn’t succeeded.’

Alex scratched his head.

‘It’s too soon to be sure that it’s just a bluff. We need to hold our nerve.’

Eden looked at her watch.

‘It’s gone five o’clock, and evidently no bomb has gone off so far. Nothing is going to happen at five fifteen or five thirty either,’ she said.

‘Let’s wait and see,’ Alex replied.

If Eden was right, Stockholm would still be intact when the hands on the clock had passed five forty-five.

T
he crisis came and went. By six o’clock, no bombs had gone off, and as far as parliament was concerned, Säpo were continuing to search
the building, but didn’t expect to find anything. The Speaker announced that the debate on immigration and integration would take place as planned the following morning.

The Central Station and Åhlén’s department store opened their doors to the public just after seven and, at about the same time, it was decided that employees at the Royal
Library and Rosenbad could return to their offices if they needed to make up the working hours they had lost.

Fredrika Bergman stayed on in the Foreign Office building on Fredsgatan after the end of the working day; she didn’t want to go home until the issue of the bomb threats was resolved.

Then suddenly the danger was past. The story of the mysterious bomb threats lived on in news bulletins all over the country, but nowhere else. Fredrika picked up her jacket and bag and went
home.

That night she lay awake in the darkened bedroom, gazing at Spencer.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked without lifting his head from the pillow.

‘Nothing. I’m just happy to see you.’

She sensed a smile on his face.

‘Aha.’

Was he looking older these days? She edged closer. Sometimes she thought she could see new lines and wrinkles on his face every day, and that made her panic. She didn’t want Spencer to age
any more quickly than he had done over the past few years. He was twenty-five years older than her; she couldn’t bear it if the gap grew any wider.

She caressed his forehead, saw him close his eyes. He would fall asleep at any moment, as he always did when they had made love even though it was very late. There had been a time in their lives
when their relationship couldn’t be exposed to the light of day; they had been able to meet only in the evenings and at night. In those days it was never too late for sex, and they were never
too tired.

But now . . .

After two children and a period of turbulence caused by Spencer’s separation from his wife, plus the chaos that followed when he was falsely accused of raping a student, things were very
different. Most of the time they were both perfectly happy sitting side by side on the sofa and falling asleep in front of some mindless TV programme.

It was hard to admit it but, unfortunately, Spencer wasn’t the only one who had aged. For example, Fredrika couldn’t remember the last time she had been really drunk. Was it at a
deadly boring reception that one of Spencer’s colleagues had given in New York? She couldn’t remember.

‘What are you thinking about?’ Spencer asked.

‘The last time I was drunk.’

He opened his eyes. ‘Okay . . .’

‘Have we got old and boring?’

‘I don’t think we’ll ever be boring, but I’m afraid we’re never going to be younger either.’

Fredrika burst out laughing.

‘You’re a wise man, Spencer.’

‘Indeed I am.’

He reached out and pulled her close, hugging her tightly.

I will love you forever.

Fredrika found his hand, kissed his fingers. Her lips brushed against the ring he had received when he gained his doctorate; he wore it next to his wedding ring. She had been unable to hold back
the tears when they got married. During all the years they had been lovers, she had never once thought that they would be a proper couple. Not once. And now he was both the father of her children
and her husband. The only issue that remained was their surname. Fredrika flatly refused to take the name Lagergren, and of course the conservative Spencer didn’t want to be called
Bergman.

‘What does it matter what you’re called?’ Spencer had said. ‘Can’t you just drop your maiden name?’

‘Darling Spencer, you could just as easily drop your name!’

At that point the discussion usually came to an end, and they decided it didn’t matter what they were called.

After all, we share everything else.

Fredrika stroked Spencer’s wedding ring, and suddenly realised she was thinking about Eden Lundell. For some reason she had been surprised to discover that Eden was married. It
didn’t fit in with her persona, which was hard and uncompromising. Almost as if she ate small children for breakfast, as the Secretary of State had said when they were leaving the conference
room.

‘You don’t fuck with Swedish democracy,’ Eden had said. That was no doubt true, but was that really what Zakaria Khelifi had been doing? There was no better way of fucking with
democracy than by making people afraid, Fredrika knew that much. It frightened her that following various terror attacks, people were starting to become less critical of laws that went against the
principle of integrity. It was almost as if integrity was a luxury that could be afforded only under certain circumstances.

No doubt, Eden had a high level of integrity. Eden, who had honey-coloured hair and smelled of cigarette smoke. Eden, who had the longest legs Fredrika had ever seen, and who looked as if she
had just been to war, in spite of the fact that she was wearing a skirt suit.

Some crimes could not be expiated. And it would be both stupid and dangerous to take unnecessary risks when both Säpo and the government had a legal obligation to protect the
country’s security. The decision on the case of Zakaria Khelifi had been formally approved at six o’clock, and a few hours later, Säpo would have picked him up. By now he would be
sitting in a custody cell.

Fredrika had never dealt with so-called security issues before, nor had she come across the term when she was working for the police. Eden Lundell had given her their cards when they left, but
Fredrika didn’t feel comfortable calling any of them. Particularly Eden.

When Spencer had fallen asleep, Fredrika picked up a handout on security issues that a colleague had put together. It confirmed what she had already read on Säpo’s website:

It was Säpo’s job to ensure that Sweden didn’t become a refuge for individuals who could constitute a danger to the country’s security. It was their role to look at the
background, contacts and activities of a foreign national – in Sweden or overseas – and to determine if the individual in question could pose a security risk. The most common grounds
for suspicion were linked to terrorism, but they could also involve espionage on the part of refugees. The organisation looked to the future; they were concerned not only with who did or did not
constitute a threat, but also who
might possibly
constitute a threat. However they were supposed to know that . . .

Fredrika couldn’t shake off a feeling of unease. Just a few hours ago, inner-city Stockholm had been paralysed by false bomb threats delivered over the phone. Threats that coincided with
the major immigration debate in parliament. Which in turn coincided with the conviction of two young men for preparing to commit an act of terrorism, with severe sentences being handed down.

There is absolutely no way that this has all happened by chance, Fredrika thought.

Every fibre of her being was telling her that something was wrong.

The bomb threats were a smokescreen. Anything else was out of the question. But what could they expect instead?

I
t was nine thirty by the time Eden Lundell smoked her last cigarette of the day. She had just got home from work and had a quick puff, hidden
behind the garage wall. If the neighbours saw her, they would think she’d started drinking in secret, not that she couldn’t stand Mikael going on about how upset he was that she was
still smoking.

Just before she left the office she had had a call from Alex Recht, who had heard from one of his subordinates: he had found out where the bomb threats had been made from.

‘All the phones were linked to masts close to Arlanda. The last call was definitely made from inside the airport complex itself.’

Eden walked towards the house. Now they had a location, which meant that the answer to the questions who? and why? couldn’t be far away.

The windows at the front of the house were in darkness when Eden put her key in the lock. She glanced around instinctively before she closed the door behind her, double-locked it and set the
alarm. She just couldn’t understand people who didn’t take care of their own home, their own safety.

She heard Mikael’s footsteps coming down the stairs as she was taking off her coat. It smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. Shit. She quickly walked towards him, wanting to get away from
the treacherous aroma.

She held her breath as he kissed her cheek, but it didn’t quite work. Her hair smelled of smoke as well.

‘Have you been smoking?’

‘Yes.’

No point in lying. Next time she would sit on the step instead of hiding behind the garage. Easier all round.

‘Can’t you pack it in?’

‘No. Any food left?’

‘It’s on the draining board, it just needs heating up.’

She went into the kitchen with Mikael following behind. She avoided looking at him. She was late and she stank of smoke. He was going to tell her that he’d been worried, that she should
have called, that she couldn’t keep working so late. That she ought to think of her daughters.

‘You could have called.’

‘I did.’

‘You said you’d be home by seven.’

‘But you knew I had to deal with the bomb threats.’

‘Of course I did. But you must call me, Eden. Keep me informed.’

Must I?

She took out a plate, cutlery and a glass. Mikael had made lasagne. The children’s favourite. And hers. He came and stood beside her, so close that she had to look up and meet his
eyes.

‘You can’t carry on like this.’

‘Give me a break, Mikael. I’ve only just started a new job.’

‘You’ve been there for months. You were just the same when you worked for the National Bureau of Investigation.’

She didn’t answer.

‘The girls were asking about you earlier on. Saba was crying. She wants you to be at home sometimes, to say goodnight before they go to sleep. Like other mummies.’

Eden felt the colour rising in her cheeks.

‘Like other mummies? Would we even be having this discussion if I was a man?’

‘Too bloody right we would.’

How many times had she seen Mikael really angry? Not very many. Very few, in fact. And their relationship had even survived the move from Britain to Sweden, and the birth of twins.

But he was angry now. Furious. Almost more furious than the time when . . . Eden didn’t want to go there. She had sinned once. A serious transgression. If Mikael hadn’t been a
priest, she was sure he would have left her.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. But there’s some really major stuff going on at work right now, which means I find it bloody hard to tell myself I have to go home
early just because a child is crying.’

‘Not
a
child, Eden.
Your
child.’

‘Okay, but at the end of the day, from a wider perspective, it’s a very minor matter. The girls have to learn that they’re not the most important thing in the world for
everyone.’

She heard Mikael take a deep breath.

‘I don’t think they want everyone’s attention. Yours would be enough.’

She wanted to protest, tell him that the world didn’t work that way, but she was too tired to argue and too hungry to waste any more time on bickering.

In silence she slid the plate of food into the microwave and waited for it to heat up.

‘And how was your day?’ she asked her husband.

‘Good. I had my first meeting with a group preparing for confirmation; they were like all the rest, I suppose. Not very interested on the surface, but deep down they’re very
confused.’

A confirmation group. Eden liked hearing about that kind of thing. Mikael’s confirmation group formed a nice counterbalance to her terrorists. He carried on talking as she ate. She
didn’t tell him anything about how she had spent her day. She had noticed that Mikael was following the trial on the news, but fortunately he hadn’t asked her any questions. Mikael was
a priest; he wouldn’t understand why someone like Zakaria Khelifi had to be deported.

Eden sat at the table with her plate in front of her, chewing and swallowing. Everything had gone smoothly. Zakaria Khelifi had been taken into custody, and in just over a week he would be on
his way home to Algeria, escorted by the Swedish police.

Everything was as it should be. Justice had been done.

The house was silent. Diana was asleep, and Alex Recht was alone in his office. The intensity of his working day had made it impossible to sleep; he felt wide awake.
Diana’s lovely smile shone out at him from a photograph on his desk.

The children had accepted Diana right away. His daughter had wept when he finally managed to come out with the fact that he had met someone.

‘I’m really, really happy for you,’ she had said.

Alex got a lump in his throat when he remembered her words. And he still felt like crying when he thought about Lena, the mother of his children, the woman with whom he had thought he would
spend the rest of his life. But we don’t always get what we want. Things don’t always turn out the way we expect. He knew that now, and he had to fight to stop himself from being
destroyed by the fear of losing everything all over again. Lena was still with him. In a photograph with the children. Taken during the last summer of her life.