They emerged from the impersonal but flashy apartment at 8B Eastmansvägen at 07.56, harried and late for school and work. Christian, Leo and Sixten, Lotta’s husband and children.
What did they know about Lotta’s fate? What did they think? Were they worried?
What was it like living without her? Sara was convinced that it had been Lotta who called all the shots in the family, and now she was gone. How had they reacted to that? Were they lost and anxious, or happy with their new-found freedom? No, a mother was always a mother, Sara thought to herself, realising that she was attempting to convince herself of that too, in part.
Had Lotta been able to make contact with her family before she was taken away? If so, what had she said? ‘Mum has to go away for a while . . .’?
The emails they were receiving were probably written by someone else entirely; how would they react if they ever found out the truth about their wife and mother?
Sara felt a prickle of guilty conscience about the fact that the trio were being forced to live without Lotta, but reflected that an absent mother was still a far better alternative than hundreds of thousands dead.
She honked. Christian looked up and around, spotted Sara and came over to her car to pass her the umbrella.
‘Everything good?’
‘Definitely. You?’
‘Definitely.’
The usual pleasantries were dealt with quickly and then Sara sat there, staring at her mother’s umbrella.
She still didn’t believe for one moment that Jane had forgotten it. She had left it there on purpose. But why?
So that she could come back, of course.
If she needed to.
But why?
Sara started the engine, drove around the back of Sabbatsberg and onto the Barnhusbron bridge, along Fleminggatan onto the Klarastrandleden and then to Solna. But she wasn’t going to work quite yet. She had half an hour to spare, so instead she went around the big, empty roundabout, past Tomteboda and up a steep hill. At the top loomed the colossal headquarters of the Swedish Security Service, the Olympus of law enforcement, with uninterrupted views and a giant, cloudless sky above it, like an eagle’s nest, a medieval fortress. For the Bavarian dukes, inaccessibility had streamlined fortress defences just as much as it had impeded opportunities for escape – but who would want to escape from a place like that?
Yellow and red signage posted on the building’s façade declared photography to be strictly prohibited, in addition to banning any drawings or attempts to document the building. Its shape and size did not appear in any mapping application but the address was a matter of public record. Strange logic, hiding in plain sight. Or to draw a parallel with the water in the nearby Saltsjön bay: it was a brackish transparency. And it was in those waters she intended to trawl.
Sara parked her car in one of the spaces on the opposite side of the street from the entrance and looked up at the newly built grey façade. On so many occasions she had sat inside and been questioned in the months since Geiger and Abu Rasil had attempted to detonate the bombs in Germany.
She saw that the guard by the door was keeping his eye on her – just as he was supposed to. Everyone who approached the building was kept under close observation. But Sara was in no hurry to show her police credentials.
First she pulled out her phone and made a call.
‘Brundin.’
Still just her last name. Unusual for a woman, Sara thought. And she was quite certain that Brundin had saved her number so she knew who was calling. Sara got straight to the point – a habit she had picked up from Hedin.
‘Messer, Axt, Faust and Lorelei were the Stasi code names for a group of West German terrorists. One of them – or all of them – murdered Stiller, the priest. I know their real names now. Tell me what happened to Lotta and I’ll tell you what I know.’
Silence for a few seconds. Complete silence, as if Brundin had hit ‘mute’ – possibly to consult with someone. Then she returned, brusque as ever.
‘Come in.’
Sara got out of the car and went over to the door, where the guard had just received instructions in his earpiece. Sara flashed her police ID, the guard scanned it and admitted her into the security complex. In the background, she heard the sound of a train on its way somewhere.
Just as she was entering, Sara’s mobile rang. Anna. It would have to wait. She rejected the call and switched onto silent.
Brundin came to meet her by the lifts without offering a word of greeting. Today she was wearing a blazer and sequined T-shirt teamed with a pair of high-waisted jeans. The intelligence operative piloted the ordinary detective through a number of locked doors and past a series of cameras mounted in every corridor and room they passed.
Their walk ended in a small meeting room with sandy-coloured walls, white floral curtains and a meeting table made from blond pine. On the table was a tray containing napkins, coffee mugs and single tetrapak portions of milk. But no coffee.
Sara sat down and Brundin sat down opposite her. Lying on the table was a beige folder with the words ‘SEKR AVT’ and Sara’s personal identification number on it. The Säpo officer put her hand on the folder, and Sara pondered whether it was because Brundin wanted to shield the contents or because she intended to whip them out.
‘Since you let me in, I assume you’re interested in what I know about the four terrorists,’ said Sara.
Brundin didn’t answer – she merely raised her eyebrows in a gesture that might have been interpreted as, ‘And that is?’
‘First I want to know everything about Lotta,’ Sara said. ‘Where is she and why has it all gone quiet? There hasn’t been so much as a whisper that Europe was seconds from a devastating attack.’
‘That’s down to the EU. Not us.’
‘But you know why.’
Brundin merely looked at Sara without her expression even flickering.
‘Where was she flown to? Who took her? And Agneta? Did you get what you wanted from her? She can’t have lived long.’
‘This concerns a matter pertaining to international terrorism and multi-state cooperation on issues of security. You will never have a full view of what occurred and why. This is well above both your and my pay grades. Lotta and Agneta Broman were processed by intelligence officials from Sweden and the EU – that’s all you need to know. But as you are aware, you are not permitted to tell anybody this in accordance with the non-disclosure agreement you signed,’ Brundin said and tapped her index finger on the skin-toned folder on the table.
‘When I was in hospital with gunshot wounds and burns, zonked out on painkillers.’
‘Just accept the facts.’
‘Can I take a look at that agreement?’ said Sara, reaching out for it with her hand. But Brundin quickly withdrew the folder without saying a word. She stared fixedly at Sara, one hand resting heavily on the folder containing the agreement.
‘Lotta has supposedly taken a sabbatical, and Agneta was supposedly found dead, shot by the same burglars who killed Stellan,’ Sara said, glowering at the Säpo woman.
‘That’s correct.’
‘Why are you protecting Lotta?’
‘No one is protecting Lotta. We’re protecting the people of the European Union.’
‘Or perhaps you’re protecting the powers that be in the EU? By keeping it quiet that the union almost suffered a huge terrorist attack, and that a Swedish director general involved with a German intelligence operative was the brain behind it all.’
‘Nothing but speculation. Everything is to protect the people.’
‘I also think that Eva Hedin should be told the truth.’
Brundin assumed an irritated, almost disgusted expression when Sara mentioned Hedin’s name. Perhaps it was because Hedin had prevailed over the Security Service in the Supreme Court. Or perhaps she simply thought Hedin was an idiot.
‘About both Lotta and Geiger,’ Sara added.
‘That won’t be happening. And don’t get it into your head to say anything.’
This time, Brundin picked up the folder containing the NDA and waved it around in a way that made Sara think about the old photos of Britain’s Neville Chamberlain declaring ‘peace for our time’ in 1938.
Sara fell silent and stared at Brundin for a while. The other woman was immobile, with an expression that it was impossible to interpret. It was neither irritable nor anxious, nor even confident. It was completely blank. What a perfect talent for a spook.
‘What about the code names, then?’ Sara said by way of persuasion. ‘You promised you’d explain.’
‘Only about Lotta Broman. And you promised to tell me everything you knew about the murder of Stiller. The police in Östergötland reported it as suicide. After he killed his wife in some marital dispute.’
‘But none of us believe that.’
‘What do you know about the people you mentioned?’
‘What do you know about them?’
‘That wasn’t the deal.’ Brundin was still implacable and Sara found herself giving in.
‘Messer, Axt, Faust and Lorelei were actually called Hans Gerlach, Stefan Kremp, Otto Rau and Marita Werner. But those names aren’t in any current records. They’re presumably living under new identities. The question is what they’re called today, whether they’re involved, and why Stiller was killed? Was it because something is happening? Something connected to what Geiger was preparing for? Or was it simply to protect their identities?
Sara fell silent.
‘Are you finished?’ said Brundin.
‘Yes.’
‘OK.’
They sat in silence.
‘So which is it?’ Sara said at last.
‘Which?’
‘Why was he murdered? Who are these four people?’
‘No comment.’
‘Why aren’t you interested in what I’ve told you?’
‘I’m unable to offer any comment on anything. Not as to whether we know who you are talking about, nor whether any of them are subjects of interest to us or other intelligence agencies. All I can do is advise you to leave it well alone. Don’t you have a job to be doing? Three dead in Ekerö, aren’t there?’
‘So you’re keeping tabs on me?’
‘No comment.’ Sara discerned an ever-so-subtle smile at the corner of Brundin’s mouth. The sly fox.
‘Stiller was murdered. Do more people have to die just because you’re protecting former terrorists?’
‘No one is protecting any terrorists.’
‘I won’t leave until you’ve given me some information about these four. Do they have new names? Do you know where they are? Who are they today?’
‘No comment.’
‘OK. Should I call the papers? About Lotta and Abu Rasil and these four people?’
Sara pulled out her mobile to emphasise the threat, at which point she saw she had five missed calls from Anna and another from Bielke, in addition to a text message from Anna that read: ‘Where the fuck are you? Gang war! Come now!’