Sara slowly emerged from the main door of the block of flats at 189 Åsögatan. Bielke stepped off the pavement on the other side of the street and met her halfway.
So Bielke was Faust?
Bielke had murdered Hedin?
And tried to shoot Sara?
So much for love.
Sara drew her pistol, extended her arm and took aim directly at the face of her boss and passing lover.
She held up the photo she had found at Hedin’s.
‘You missed this.’
Bielke looked at the photo for a long time and then nodded to himself.
‘I was afraid something like this might come up.’
‘You tried to kill me. You fired into my own home.’
Bielke looked at Sara with what appeared to be genuine surprise.
‘No.’
‘And now you’ve killed Hedin. Was it supposed to look like suicide?’
‘Sara, you’re mistaken. I’m not who you think.’
‘I don’t think, I know. You’re Otto Rau. Seen in this photo with his friends.’
‘I was in the cell. That’s true. But I’ve never met Otto Rau, only heard about him. I was no more than an errand boy,’ said Bielke, his eyes widening.
‘That’s what you say now.’
‘I promise. Ask the others. Ask them about Anders Karlsson. That was my cover name.’ He swept the street with his gaze. ‘I think it’s probably best if you lower the gun, otherwise someone will call the police.’
Sara did as he said, but was still prepared to defend herself.
‘Go to the edge of the road,’ she said.
They went to the pavement just outside Hedin’s window.
Should she take him inside and shoot him? As revenge?
No, she couldn’t do that.
But she wanted to.
‘Was it worth it? Four people’s lives on your conscience to protect your dirty little secret?’
‘I haven’t killed anyone. It’s not as secret as all that. It would cost me my career if the past came out, but I would never go so far as to commit murder.’
‘So someone else did it? Killed all the people threatening to reveal your identity?’
‘Sara, listen to me. I was drawn to the revolutionary groups when I was young, but I was just a hanger on, a foot soldier. I went to places and shopped, acquired weapons, gave people lifts, found places to live. Today I’m ashamed by how naïve I was, but I was never calling the shots in those groups. I’ve never done anything really awful. I wasn’t even part of it for very long. OK?’
‘You just happen to be standing here outside Hedin’s flat? And you found your way to my house because you’ve been before, to leave a body, the body of your friend in the photo.’
‘Sara, you have to believe me! The only thing I’ve been hiding is that I was in the cell. I haven’t killed anyone. I waited outside your building and followed you here. I just wanted to know whether my secret was going to be uncovered. I knew you wouldn’t give in easily – that you were onto the truth.’
Her mobile buzzed again. A message. Bloody Martin. Why wouldn’t he ever give up? Sara couldn’t take her gaze from Bielke, so she ignored it.
‘Sara Nowak!’
The voice was unfamiliar and she didn’t want to allow herself to be distracted. She took a half step backwards so that she still had Bielke in the corner of her vision but was able to turn her head to see who had shouted.
She saw a bespectacled man with a grey-flecked beard and grey hair in a ring around an otherwise bald head. He presented police ID.
‘Quintus Nyman,’ he said. ‘Säpo.’
‘Have you been following me too?’
‘Put away the weapon please,’ said Nyman, approaching slowly with the palms of his hands extended to placate the armed Sara.
‘No,’ said Sara. ‘He murdered Eva Hedin. And the others. He’s Otto Rau. Faust.’
Nyman blinked. Then he looked at Bielke.
‘Him? Are you sure?’
Sara handed over the photo that Hedin had hidden in the freezer compartment. Nyman scrutinised the photo and then looked up at Bielke.
‘Finally,’ he said.
‘I’m not Faust!’ said Bielke. ‘I’ve never even met him. He kept me at arm’s length. Only a few got to meet him.’
‘I didn’t expect you to confess,’ said Nyman.
Suddenly the Säpo man was brandishing a gun and aiming right at Bielke.
‘This is for Alger Nyman.’
The operative fired two shots into the chest of Sara’s boss. A couple of teenagers who had been sauntering by and an older woman walking her dachshund panicked when they realised what had happened and ran for their lives.
Sara raised her pistol in reflex, but didn’t know what to do. She took aim at Nyman.
Bielke fell to the ground. Nyman took a revolver out of his pocket and threw it onto the ground next to him. The pavement slowly began to turn red with blood.
‘He tried to shoot me,’ he said, looking at Sara. ‘OK?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe if you say why.’
Sara crouched to see how Bielke was. He was breathing but he was bleeding profusely. He looked at her with panic in his eyes and seemed to be trying to say something, but all he was able to get out was a strange, gurgling sound. The bullets didn’t seem to have hit his head, but she couldn’t say more than that.
There was still no reply from Nyman.
‘Who is Alger Nyman?’ said Sara.
‘My father. Rau killed him. Pushed him in front of an underground train in 1987 to conceal arms exports to the DDR. Thanks for finding him.’
‘You’ve been following me to get hold of him?’
‘I’ve been looking for Otto Rau my whole life. I knew he was dangerous, so I thought you might need some backup. The BND forbade us to help you, so I suppose we’ll see what happens now.’
He pulled out his mobile and made a call.
‘Nyman at Säpo. There’s a policeman shot in Södermalm, 189 Åsögatan. Immediate assistance required.’
Nyman ended the call and looked at the bleeding body on the pavement with disgust.
‘The BND have been shielding his identity all these years, not a thought for his victims. They’re probably still in cahoots with him.’
‘But now you’ve got your revenge?’
‘Not quite. He’s not dead yet.’
Sara noted Bielke’s juddering, irregular breathing. How much blood his body was pumping onto the pavement! Nyman went over and took aim at his forehead.
Sara stepped into his line of sight.
Nyman looked at her, then he picked up the revolver he had cast away.
‘OK. I’ll shoot you with his gun. I’ll say I wasn’t quick enough to save you.’
Sara grabbed her own pistol and took aim at Nyman.
‘Stop it! He should be in prison!’
They stared at each other along their respective barrels, each unsure what would happen. Would the other shoot? Sara didn’t want to shoot first, but she definitely didn’t want to shoot last.
She fumbled desperately for her mobile – to call for help or perhaps to record Nyman. Her mobile was her saviour, somehow.
She pulled out her phone and was about to enter the PIN to unlock it when her eye was caught by a picture message that had been sent from Martin’s mobile. She could see a preview of it on the display. Without a thought for the injured Bielke or Nyman and his revolver, she unlocked the phone and opened the message.
Seven missed calls from Martin’s mobile.
But it hadn’t been Martin calling. Or sending the message.
The picture showed Martin bound and bleeding.
He was standing on a stool with a noose around his neck.
The caption read: ‘Don’t you want to save him? Rau.’
Sara stared at the picture.
While her thoughts rushed around her head, another message arrived.
There was a picture of the table with the straps in Warehouse 7.
It was captioned: ‘Room for you. You know the address. You have fifteen minutes.’
She looked at Quintus Nyman.
‘Get him to hospital! He’s not Rau. The real Rau has my husband.’
She got up and ran around the corner to Erstagatan and Eric’s car that she had parked there.
Now she would have to see how fast a Maserati could go.
Which way was the fastest from here, given the roadworks everywhere? She started the car, switched on the built-in satnav – and froze.
The screen showed ‘Most recent searches’ and at the top was ‘Torpa vicarage, Ydre’.
Suddenly it all made sense.
A terrible realisation pounded inside her head.
Her whole life – the last twenty-five years – flashed before her eyes. How could she have been so blind?
All that time living in proximity to a terrorist. A cold-blooded killer.
And she hadn’t even noticed a thing.
But now she knew.
Otto Rau hadn’t needed a false Swedish identity from Jürgen Stiller. Eric Titus had needed a false German identity to infiltrate the cell.
Otto Rau had never existed.
It was Eric Titus’s cover name. It always had been.
At Titus & Partners, Sara had seen the history of Eric’s company. Founded in 1990. Just as the Wall had fallen.
Using what capital?
The money for Operation Wahasha had been the making of Titus & Partners. The group’s activities included international shipping, like the company that owned Warehouse 7, where Eric wanted her to go.
She looked at the picture message again.
Was Eric holding his own son hostage? How could that be possible?
Or was Martin pretending? What was Eric’s relationship with his son?
Now she spotted a detail that told her something even more important. Something that Eric hadn’t thought about. But could she be sure? Otherwise she was risking both her own and her husband’s lives.
If she didn’t do exactly as Eric said, there was a big risk he would actually kill Martin.
Her father-in-law wanted her to go to Warehouse 7.
And she only had twelve minutes.
Sara started the car.