27

Cathryn Forester had never even come close to drowning, but as she hurried towards the flat roof of Swedish Armed Forces HQ for the second time that evening, she did so with a frightening conviction that this was exactly what it felt like.

Everything had collapsed around her. First Sara’s death, then William’s escape, and then, worst of all–the short message from Anthony Higgs. He had reached her on the unofficial satellite phone, and even as he introduced himself she’d felt the knot in her stomach.

She knew who he was, of course she did, she’d seen him on TV like everyone else, and frankly that had been enough for her to decide that she instinctively disliked him. But she had never spoken to him before, and there was no reason for him to be making contact, not now, not direct with her.

When she was new at the Vauxhall Cross HQ, Major John Patrick Trottier had time and time again returned from Whitehall meetings red in the face and furious about things that were top-secret but which he inevitably conveyed between the lines. The project that he and Higgs had both been involved in had been way above her grade, a European security collaboration with a codename she had long since forgotten. For years it had been poised in the starting blocks, but–as Trottier put it–constantly stymied by political cowardice.

What they developed wasn’t a weapon–it was far better, he used to say, it was a non-weapon–but that hadn’t prevented the scheme from finally ending up mothballed for good. On that day, Trottier had come back to the office in a snarling rage that smelled a lot like Guinness, swearing at all and sundry and calling the Defence Secretary a bloody spineless turncoat and just as untrustworthy as all the other bastards up there.

Now that turncoat had contacted her via the satellite phone, and the more she listened to his voice, the more the water had closed in around her, drowning on the same roof where she’d just been talking to Trottier.

Trottier’s plane had been a Hawker 800. Piloted by two very experienced officers and with a single passenger on board. At ten minutes past ten, Defence Minister Higgs had told her with formal precision, the plane had received clearance from the control tower, sped down the runway and into the air.

According to witnesses, the darkness had come the moment the plane left ground. It dropped as though someone had put a blanket over a birdcage, rippled like a wave throughout the airfield and beyond, and now Major John Patrick Trottier was gone.

She tilted her face towards the snow, hoping that the cold sensation would calm her down, but it didn’t help in the slightest. The man who just moments ago was on his way over to her, who she’d have done anything to avoid seeing, that man was dead and from now on all contact would be directly with the turncoat himself.

Was this her fault? Were they right, was she simply not up to the job? Could she have done things differently, prised the truth out of William Sandberg, could that have stopped Trottier’s death?

Fuck. She deserved the rollicking Trottier had intended to give her.

None of it added up. How could Sandberg be involved with this? What could he have done anyway–started what process, sent what order, prompted what sequence that made the computers at Northolt ready for attack as soon as Trottier took off? And given all that, how could Sandberg even have known that he was coming?

She swore into the falling snow, felt the flakes burning her face.

The question was not how did it happen, it was how was she going to get hold of Sandberg again. Once she’d done that, she was going to pin him against the wall, and she wasn’t going to let anyone get in the way, not Palmgren and not Velander and not even the Whitehall turncoat. She would push Sandberg until he told her what had happened, why it had happened, and what he had planned next.

All she needed to know was that he was guilty.

And now she was certain of that: only a guilty man formats his hard drives.

Velander did as he’d been asked and waited until they’d gone past the Royal College of Music. He wove between the dirty brown trails of snow that had been ploughed up onto the pavements, and saw his vision blur as the snow melted on his bloody glasses. Every now and then he would attempt to wipe them with his forearm, a nylon coat sleeve that was just as wet as everything else and that only made things worse.

The whole time, he had his phone pressed to his ear. He let it ring and ring, and was about to hang up for the third time when a crackle came at the other end.

‘Where are you?’ the voice said, with no introduction.

‘Where are you?’ said Velander. ‘I’ve been ringing for ages.’

‘I know. I couldn’t talk in there.’

Velander regretted it almost at once. In there. He knew that Palmgren had accompanied Sara’s lifeless body to the hospital. He knew he had waited for William’s wife and then obviously–Velander grimaced–obviously he’d have stayed with her for support.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you while…’

‘Not at all,’ Palmgren said. ‘I was the one who asked you to.’

Velander ploughed on. ‘I have a question,’ he said. ‘I’ll be coming back to the office with two dripping-wet shoes and a bag of Danish pastries from 7-Eleven. Now, if I’m struck down with pneumonia tonight, and diabetes, will I be able to call that a workplace injury?’

‘You’re asking me whether this call is taking place while we’re on duty?’

‘Amongst other things, yes.’

‘In that case it might be worthwhile to check your private health insurance.’

Velander unravelled the reply. ‘I’ve been on dates that were more direct than this conversation,’ he said eventually. And then, when Palmgren didn’t seem to have anything to add: ‘I don’t trust her either.’

‘I never said I didn’t trust her.’

‘I know. But someone had to make the first move.’

It fell quiet again, and in that interval he wondered if he might have gone too far.

‘I’m not going to ask you to block her,’ Palmgren said at last. ‘Not to disobey her orders or anything like that. All I’m asking you to do is to report to me when anything crops up.’

Velander nodded at no one in particular. Then he looked both ways down the empty, slush-filled avenue, and pushed the mic closer to his lips.

‘Status right now,’ he said, lowering his voice. He went on to give a concise account of everything that had happened in Palmgren’s absence, the listening silence growing deeper with each word. He hadn’t been gone more than a few hours, yet there had been time for another attack, a surge which had also knocked out a military airfield and killed Forester’s superior.

‘Like having your arteries on the outside,’ Palmgren said silently when Velander had finished. ‘And what do we know about William?’

‘Nothing. He’s still missing, wanted on suspicion of terror offences. The whole city is full of police units. They’ve got his flat, his wife’s flat, her job under surveillance. Not that anyone thinks he’s stupid enough to turn up there, but what choice do they have?’ Velander hesitated. ‘I don’t know if you already know this, but the last thing he did was to format his computer.’

Judging by Palmgren’s silence, that was news to him.

‘What’s Forester saying?’

‘Exactly what you’d expect,’ said Velander. ‘That she won’t quit until they’ve found him, and that when they do, there’ll be none of the kid-gloves treatment like the last time. Wait.’ He crossed the street, hopping over slush-filled puddles. ‘The only thing that worries me,’ he said when he got to the other side, ‘is the wallet.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It was in his inside pocket when he got the coat back. Before you drove him to Sara.’

Velander let the silence underline what he’d said. And when Palmgren finally answered, he did so with a snigger.

‘William has been working for the military for thirty years. Do they really think that he’s crazy enough to use his credit cards in this situation? Because if they do, they’re even dumber than I thought.’

‘I’m with you,’ said Velander. ‘Pretty much. But how long can he manage without money?’

Velander was right, and they both knew it. Neither of them said as much, but the odds were against him. Sooner or later William would have to reveal himself.

‘I should go back in to Christina,’ Palmgren said to break silence. ‘Thanks for calling.’ He paused before adding: ‘And if you don’t feel comfortable with this, I want you to say so. Otherwise I would be most grateful if you could keep me up to speed with whatever Forester does while I’m not there.’

Velander smiled as he answered: ‘I thought I was already doing that.’

They had a whole city to keep under surveillance. And never mind that pretty much every available resource had been deployed on the search, they still would never be able to cover every square metre. Plus the fact that they were looking for a man who had worked for the military for over thirty years.

Those were Major Cathryn Forester’s thoughts as she walked the last few yards back to the briefing room. Still, with each step, she felt her posture straightening, the strain around her eyes shifting from dejected and tired to focused and alert as she planned her next moves, which tasks she was going to delegate and how.

Sure, Sandberg knew their patterns of thinking. He knew what to do to keep out of their way. That meant that their only chance was to wear him out, and the only way to do that was to keep working, steadily, everywhere, all the time, and she was determined to do that.

As soon as she set foot back in the room, she would be taking back command. She wasn’t going to let herself relax, not for a second, until she was absolutely sure that they had him again.

The next moment she stuck her head round the door, and all those thoughts vanished at once.

The room was empty. Dotted around the table a few open laptops were whirring, neat piles of notes were placed carefully by chairs, and the coffee cups and water glasses were half full as though everyone had suddenly stood up and gone. For an instant she was gripped by a sort of indignant fear, a feeling of having been removed from position and barred from her own working group, and that they were all off somewhere else without having told her. It was absurd, she could see that, yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d lost control–or worse still, that her control had never been needed: the others were getting on with the job without her, and doing just fine.

‘Forester?’

She spun around.

The voice belonged to one of her own, a British colleague, a junior officer with cropped hair and a Scottish accent. He was now standing in the doorway, looking at her with a restless stare and body language that wanted nothing but to get moving.

‘Yes?’ she said, trying to retain her status but sensing that it wasn’t going that well. ‘What’s going on?’

‘The JOC,’ said the Scot. ‘Down there. They’re waiting for you.’

And then he said the thing that made her forget all the thoughts she’d just had.

‘We’ve been looking for you everywhere. We’ve located William Sandberg.’