Hjelm discovered that Bro was a bedroom community with six thousand inhabitants between Kungsängen and Bålsta. Checking various databases from his office in police headquarters, he found eight Hermans in Bro. Two were retired; the others were possibilities, between the ages of twenty-two and fifty-eight. He called them. Three weren’t home; none of the others admitted to knowing Justine Lindberger, even though he impressed upon them how important it was and guaranteed confidentiality, which made one of them-Herman Andersson, forty-four-very angry. After more research, he found the workplaces of the other three and got hold of them at their jobs.
None of them knew Justine; all seemed genuinely surprised by the inquiry.
And suddenly he had nothing left to do. It made him crazy after just a few minutes, so he decided to drive up to Bro. Filled with misgivings, he left police headquarters for a tour of Uppland. At that point it was three o’clock, and rain was still pouring down.
Kerstin Holm got hold of PPP. Paula Berglund sobbed at the thought of her friend being hunted by a madman and recalled that at various times her friend had unexpectedly traveled to Västerås and Karlskrona and maybe another place as well. Petronella af Wirsén laughed aloud at the fact that Justine had fled the police and assumed she was in her apartment in Paris or her villa in Dalarö. And Priscilla Bäfwer recalled various unexplained trips to Gotland, Södertälje, Halmstad, and Trelleborg. All the relatives were less responsive and demanded the heads of the entire Swedish police force on a gigantic platter. “Little, confused Justine,” said the only communicative one, Aunt Gretha, whom Holm had located only by chance; “she always was the black sheep in the family, the one who wasn’t interested in money and power, the one who sympathized with the poor weak lambs on the edges of society.” Aunt Gretha was bewildered to hear of Justine’s immense fortune; it quite simply couldn’t be her own.
Jorge Chavez slaved away at Justine’s notes. He mobilized all his energy and all his mathematical knowledge to decipher the two that Justine Lindberger had left on her desk at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs: “Blue Viking” and “orphlinse.” After taking detours through multitudes of conceivable codes, he went the direct route and managed to find a few pubs in various parts of Sweden called Blue Viking: Café Blue Viking in Härnösand, Blue Viking Restaurant & Bar in Halmstad, Café Blue Viking in Visby, and food stands called Blue Viking in Teckomatorp and Karlshamn. Härnösand, Halmstad, Visby, and Karlshamn were all harbor cities.
When it came to the other note, he cursed himself that it took him so long to stick a period in “orphlinse” so that it became “orphlin.se”-that is, an address for a Swedish Web site. It was the Swedish branch of Orpheus Life Line, an international humanitarian organization with special focus on Iraq. The song of Orpheus, said the program description, was so poignant and strong that he had been able to sing the dead up out of the kingdom of the underworld. This was the organization’s goal. At the moment they were engaged in the situation in Iraq after the Gulf War and the blockades and the weapon-inspector crises-it bore a frightening resemblance to a kingdom of the dead. The Web site listed a whole series of matters in which human rights had been disregarded. Apparently the organization kept its members secret, so that it could work fairly undisturbed in Saddam’s domain. Chavez wondered why Justine had had the Orpheus Life Line’s Web address on her desk. Did she have a general interest in the Islamic world, or was there some more specific reason?
Viggo Norlander arrived at Östermalmshallen along with the two rather shamefaced colleagues whom Justine had eluded. Detective Werner had been stationed in the surveillance vehicle on Östermalmstorg, keeping watch down Humlegårdsgatan, while Detective Larsson had been, quote, “glued like a shadow” to Justine. Norlander’s investigation revealed that this strange metaphor had concealed a distance of fifteen yards, which was rather a lot among the aisles and stalls of a busy market. Larsson had stood just inside the entrance doors and pointed into the hall, where the most surprising animal parts hovered like defective helicopters in the aromatically complex air. Justine had disappeared somewhere on the far left-hand side. So there were three possible stalls from which she could have gone underground: a classic Swedish delicatessen, a small Thai restaurant, and a café that served coffee in tiny cups. After doing a few routine checks that had not been performed earlier, Norlander realized that she could only have escaped via the café. She could have hidden temporarily in the delicatessen or the Thai restaurant, but only the café, via a long aisle, had direct contact with the world outside. Norlander followed the aisle, keeping his gaze on the shamefaced Larsson every moment. They emerged some distance down Humlegårdsgatan, where a wet storm wind met them. Norlander strode over to Werner in the car and gave him the same evil eye that he had given Larsson. Then he went back inside and, without a word, took the violently protesting café owner with him to police headquarters.
Now Fawzi Ulaywi from Baghdad was sweating in one of the interrogation rooms, as the police watched him through a one-way mirror. “He must have unlocked it for her,” Norlander said. “He must have followed her into the back room and unlocked the door. He works alone in the café, and the door to the aisle that leads to Humlegården was locked.”
“What is he?” said Chavez, studying the printout of Orpheus Life Line’s Web site. “An Iraqi? Isn’t this about Saudi Arabia anymore?”
“What did we say about the harbors?” said Hultin. “Which ones have popped up several times?”
“ ‘Several’ is probably an exaggeration,” said Söderstedt, “but Blue Viking and the witnesses would point to Halmstad, Gotland, and possibly Karlskrona/Karlshamn, in Blekinge County. Six vessels will leave Halmstad in the next twenty-four hours, three from Visby, and sixteen from Blekinge.”
“I don’t think we have anything that makes one more likely than the next,” said Holm. “Shall we split up?”
“When is the next departure?” Hultin asked. “And where the hell is Hjelm?”
“In Bro,” said Holm.
“It’s four-thirty,” said Söderstedt. “We have a few departures left today. The next is Vega, departing Karlshamn for Venezuela at six o’clock; then Bay of Pearls, departing Halmstad for Australia at seven forty-five; then Lagavulin, depating Visby for Scotland at eight-thirty. Those are the next ones coming up.”
“We need something more, something to tilt us in one direction,” said Hultin. “Just a little more testimony about one of the places. Jorge and Arto can help Kerstin. Press the relatives. Viggo, you and I will talk to our friend the café owner.”
Hultin and Norlander went in to see Fawzi Ulaywi, who was sweating a great deal. His stubborn facial expression concealed terror, as though he had been in this situation before and was trying to avoid thinking about what had happened then.
“My café,” he said. “My café is standing there completely empty. Anyone could take my things and my money.”
“We have competent guards there for the rest of the day,” Norlander said sardonically. “Officers Larsson and Werner.” He remained by the door looking large and brutal.
Hultin sat down across from Fawzi Ulaywi and asked calmly, “Why did you help Justine Lindberger escape earlier today?”
“I haven’t done anything,” Ulaywi said single-mindedly. “I don’t understand.”
“Have you heard of the organization Orpheus Life Line? It is active in Iraq.”
Ulaywi fell silent. A breeze of worry blew across his face and left furrows behind. It was obvious that he was thinking things over, carefully. “It’s been ten years since I left Iraq,” he said finally. “I don’t know anything about what goes on there today.”