They circled around Visby and glided down to the harbor along Färjeleden. They passed the large Gotland ferries and approached Lagavulin. The vessel lay some way out on the pier at the northern breakwater, heaving against a pile of car tires.
Lagavulin wasn’t really a freighter. She was too small, more like a large fishing boat. She was alone, way out there, and there was no sign of life within her. A flock of large gulls circled the ship, like vultures around a cadaver in the desert. Out on the Baltic, a large oil tanker went by, its lanterns gleaming weakly through the storm; swaying slowly, it passed like a large, cold, inaccessible sea monster. The sky felt unusually low, as though the thick rain clouds had come down to lick the surface of the earth, as though they were witnessing the great flood. Was there great, pure, sun-drenched clearness on the other side of the clouds? Or was that just a utopian dream? Was there even room anymore for clarity?
They emerged from the cars, which had been parked out of the way, by the high school. Almost invisible in the darkness, they made their way over to the pier and ran out along it, hunching over. The scent of the sea drowned out the faint ozone odor of the rainstorm.
They were close now. There was no hint of any surveillance.
They gathered around the gangway, dripping wet.
Chavez and Norlander went aboard first, quietly, with weapons drawn. Then Hjelm and Holm, followed by Söderstedt and Hultin. All had their safeties off.
They made their way past the bridge and moved toward the stern. Everything was dark. The boat seemed deserted. A few faint voices rose in the storm. They followed the voices until they were standing by a door next to some windows with pulled curtains. Behind the curtains they could see a faint, flickering light.
Norlander assessed the strength of the door, then got ready, his back against the railing. Hjelm tried to turn the door handle, but it locked. Norlander immediately kicked it in. One giant kick was enough. The lock hung quivering on the wall for a few seconds, then fell to the deck.
Inside what looked like a dining hall, five people sat around a screwed-down kerosene lamp. A young blond man in Helly Hansen clothes, three large, swarthy upper-middle-aged men in thick down coats-and Justine Lindberger in a rain suit. When she caught sight of Söderstedt in the rear, she seemed to exhale.
“Hands on your heads!” Norlander yelled.
“It’s just the Swedish police!” Justine yelled at the three men. They placed their hands on their heads.
The Helly Hansen man stood up and said in a Gotland accent, “What is this? What are you doing here?”
“Herman Bengtsson, I presume,” said Hultin, pointing the pistol at him. “Sit down right now and place your hands on your head.”
Bengtsson reluctantly obeyed.
“Search them,” Hultin ordered.
Norlander and Chavez searched wildly. None of those present were carrying weapons. The signs were starting to add up, and they were alarming.
“You’re the ones who called me,” Justine Lindberger said, as furious mental activity seemed to be going on in her brain.
“Where’s the computer equipment?” Hultin asked.
“What computer equipment?” said Herman Bengtsson. “What are you talking about?”
“How many more people are onboard?”
“None,” said Justine Lindberger, sighing. “The crew is coming in an hour.”
“And the guards? You can’t carry control devices for nuclear weapons without a guard.”
Justine Lindberger froze, thinking intensely. Then an idea seemed to strike her. She closed her eyes for a few seconds, and when she opened them, they were more resigned, almost mourning. As if she were before a platoon of executioners.
“We’re not smuggling nuclear weapons,” she said. “It’s the other way around.”
“Jorge, Viggo, Arto-run and search. Be careful.”
They disappeared, leaving Jan-Olov Hultin, Paul Hjelm, and Kerstin Holm in charge of Justine Lindberger, Herman Bengtsson, and three dark men with the marks of death on their faces.
Justine spoke, as though her life depended on getting the words right. “Herman and I belong to Orpheus Life Line, a secret human rights organization that is active in Iraq. We have to remain secret; our enemies are powerful. Eric was part of it, too. He died without revealing anything. He was stronger than we thought.”
Then she gestured toward the three men on the sofa.
“These three are high-ranking officers in the Iraqi army. They’ve deserted. They have extremely important information about the Gulf War, which neither Saddam nor the United States wants to get out. They are on their way to the United States, to be put under the protection of a large media organization. The information will be released from there; it won’t be possible to stop it. The American mass media are the only force that is strong enough to resist.”
Hultin looked at Hjelm, Hjelm looked at Holm, Holm looked at Hultin.
“You have to let us be,” said Justine Lindberger. “Someone has tricked you. Someone has used you.”
Hjelm saw Wayne Jennings in his mind’s eye and said, “You will never know.” He felt like he was going to vomit, but he had nothing left to throw up.
“In that case, they’re on your trail,” said Kerstin Holm. “We have to get you out of here.”
“Regardless, we can’t let the boat depart,” said Hultin. “It has to be thoroughly investigated. So we’ll take you with us now, quickly.”
“It’s your duty to protect us,” said Justine Lindberger, looking very tired. “You’ve led them here-now you have to protect us with your lives.”
Hultin looked at her with an expression of deep regret and backed out past the broken door. He slid aside. Holm came out. Then Herman Bengtsson, the three men, Justine, and Hjelm. They stood out on the deck. The wind howled. The rain poured down on them.
They moved toward the gangway.
Then it happened, as though an order had been given-as though they themselves had given it.
Herman Bengtsson’s head was torn off; a cascade of blood sent him down onto the deck. The three men were flung by cascades of bullets into the wall of the ship. Their down coats turned red, and down flew out. They collapsed as though their bodies had no joints. Kerstin threw herself over Justine; she didn’t think-she was a living wall. A bullet grazed her shoulder; she saw it drill into Justine’s right eye just four inches away. Justine vomited blood into Kerstin’s face-in one last exhalation.
Hultin was petrified. He stared up at the town of Visby, which rose like a distant, illuminated doomsday castle far away.
Hjelm’s pistol was raised. His body spun around, but he had nothing to aim at, nothing at all. He returned the pistol to his shoulder holster and suddenly realized what it was like to be raped. He placed his arms around Kerstin, who was sniffling quietly.
Bloody, rain-soaked down slowly covered the nightmarish scene in a blanket of oblivion.
Everything was quiet. Visby harbor was calm.
As though nothing had happened.
29
Gunnar Nyberg needed to pee. He had been sitting motionless in a chair in the basement of police headquarters for several hours. Not for a second had his attention flagged. The two guards had played blackjack for a few hours, and then they had been relieved, and now a new pair of guards were sitting there playing blackjack.
In other words, the monotony was monumental. The architecture, without a doubt, contributed its share. The walls had been sloppily painted a light yellow, and the lights, covered by a faint layer of dust on top, shone a loathsome glare through the corridor. Now the urge to pee crept over him and struck in a dastardly ambush.