Bergman was pacing back and forth at the north end of Ringvägen, right where it intersected with Hornsgatan and Brännkyrkagatan. On the extension, Ringvägen swerved westward and eventually became Lundagatan. On the bend, there was a bumpy rock wall, and behind it, Bergman could make out an older yellow brick building.
He was waiting patiently with his back against the wall, directly beneath a sign saying it was a quarter of a mile to South Mälarstrand. He was staring intensely toward the intersection of Ringvägen and Hornsgatan. A steady stream of cars was traveling through the lights.
Turning his head slightly right, he noticed an abandoned convenience store with a green tin roof and bars molded to the front windows. According to a shabby sign on the side, the store had been called Zinken. A couple of teenage boys were hanging in front of the vacant store with their bicycles. Bergman concentrated hard, trying not to be distracted by them. It was Sunday night, and thus otherwise quiet in and around Zinkensdamm.
I got to stay alert, can’t run the risk of missing them when they show up! Bergman thought.
A black BMW turned onto Hornsgatan southbound and was heading full speed for Bergman. The tires screeched against the dry asphalt as it abruptly stopped directly in front of him.
The right backdoor opened.
“Get in!” hissed a deep baritone.
Bergman hesitated for a second before getting into the car. He had barely closed the door when the driver sped off westward on Lundagatan. Bergman was blindfolded and a headband with hearing protectors was put over his ears.
They were moving fast, that much he could tell. He had a hard time trying to compensate for the sudden turns of the vehicle and was thrown back and forth in the seat. Bergman estimated that they drove for about six or seven minutes before coming to a halt on gravel surface. Firm hands yanked him out of the car.
Bergman dragged his feet on the rough gravel yard, doing his best to slow them down. So far, not a single word had been uttered.
Despite the well-sealed hearing protectors, he could hear a door slam somewhere. He was brusquely pushed forward to a staircase and then into a room. Bergman could smell the mustiness of a space that had not been ventilated in quite a while. He could hear dull mumbling voices while they were passing through several rooms. Suddenly the man leading Bergman let go of his arm. Bergman was standing absolutely still and tried to listen. Nothing. Waiting for about thirty seconds, he carefully removed the blindfold and the hearing protectors. He was alone. Trying to get used to the light, he looked around the room. As he had guessed, it was an old house. A couple of worn rag rugs were covering parts of the floor and in the corner stood a gray recliner, and next to it a brass floor lamp. The walls featured a few antique paintings with, in Bergman’s opinion, very dark motives.
“Bill Bergman, I presume?”
Bergman turned around, but there was no one else in the room.
The voice came from an intercom mounted on the wall next to the door. Static crackled through the intercom, but he could make out a man’s voice.
“Yes. And to whom do I owe the pleasure?”
“That doesn’t matter,” the voice said. “What matters is that your daughter is still alive. Although I won’t vouch for her comfort or her health. We don’t have much time my friend.”
Bergman stiffened. He felt boiling rage emerge inside and took a few deep breaths trying to suppress it. The last thing he wanted was to give these idiots the pleasure of displaying any emotions.
“You have my daughter?” he said, looking straight at the intercom.
“We do have Astrid. Cute girl. Very loveable indeed. We would like to strike a deal with you, Bergman.”
“What is it you want?” Bergman immediately realized his voice was stricken with angst, but he could not help it. “Where is she?”
“Listen, we want you to cooperate. We need neither you nor your daughter. Our target is your friend, Anton Modin. Will you trade him for your daughter?”
The man went silent and only faint white noise escaped the speaker.
“I will cooperate, but only under one condition,” Bergman said and swallowed hard before continuing. “I demand that you will let both my daughter and Anton Modin live.”
Bergman had no idea why he said that, but instinctively he realized it was now a matter of life and death and that time was of the essence.
“I don’t have a problem with that, so it seems like we have a deal. From this point onward, I want to be informed of even the slightest move or action your diving group takes. That goes primarily for both you and Anton Modin. We need you to be available 24/7. This means you must always answer your cell phone when we call. You work for us and only for us. For all intents and purposes, from now on you are a spy. We own you. Is that perfectly clear?”
“Will you meet my demands?”
Bergman was breathing deeply, waiting.
“Yes,” the voice said slow and dragging. “We will keep our part of the deal as long as you keep yours. You can’t even dream of what my crew would like to do to your daughter. They are monsters, you know.”
For a brief moment, the voice sounded even slimier, but soon returned to its deep bass and intimidating professionalism.
“Let this serve as a warning to you Bergman. Anton Modin is about to turn the whole world on himself. He cannot accomplish what he has set out to do. No chance whatsoever. Clear?”
“Clear, I think. How is my daughter?”
“You will soon see her. But know this: if you let us down, we will come for you again. Through her.”
Fuck, Bergman thought. They have me tied. I have to betray Modin to keep my daughter safe. “Yes, yes, I’ll do what you want, for fuck’s sake!”
“Good. Please put on your hearing protectors and your blindfold again.”
Bergman did as he was told. After what he thought was about a minute, the door unlocked and someone came in and grabbed his arm.
Bill Bergman was scared shitless for the first time in as long as he could remember.