‘Indeed he is,’ Fredrika said. ‘What did you think when you read about Zakaria in the press?’
Maria put the paper down.
‘The same as I thought when you turned up and started telling me you think my Karim is a terrorist. It doesn’t make sense. I don’t know what has happened in Zakaria’s life since he was here in 2002, but back then he was a really nice boy. Hard working and conscientious – a good boy.’
‘Whoever has hijacked the plane is demanding the release of Zakaria Khelifi,’ Fredrika said.
‘And that’s why you think Karim is behind this? Because they hung out together one summer ten years ago?’
It was impossible to answer that question without giving away more information than necessary, so Marina got no reply.
However, Fredrika silently ran through everything that pointed to Karim’s involvement.
His fingerprints on the phone that had been used to make a bomb threat the previous afternoon.
The fact that he knew Zakaria Khelifi.
The book by Tennyson in which the photograph of Karim and Zakaria had been hidden.
The note found in the toilet on the plane after take-off.
The doubts came from nowhere, hitting Fredrika like a blow to the solar plexus.
We’re missing something here. Something really important.
It was all too simple. Everything was being served up to them on a silver platter.
‘Tennyson,’ Fredrika said in a tone so brusque that the Säpo officer turned to look at her.
Marina Fager looked blank.
‘Alfred Lord Tennyson, the poet. Do you know if he had a special significance for Karim?’
‘I’ve never even heard of him.’
‘He wrote the poem “Ring out, wild bells” – the one they read out at Skansen every New Year’s Eve.’
Marina shrugged. ‘Is he mixed up in this too?’
Fredrika suppressed a laugh. The first of the day; it would have been nice to let it out.
‘No. He’s been dead for a long time.’ The Säpo officer had one last question.
‘Where can we get hold of Karim’s father?’
‘I haven’t a clue. Neither Karim nor I have heard from him for the last twenty years.’
‘According to the records, he emigrated.’
‘That could well be the case. Nothing that man does would surprise me.’
Marina rested her elbows on the table, demanding everyone’s attention.
‘I didn’t think you were interested in men like Karim. In a way, I’m glad I was wrong.’
Fredrika had no idea what she was talking about, and she could see that her colleague from Säpo was in the same boat.
‘What do you mean?’ he said.
‘I thought you only went after Islamists, that you assumed all terrorists were Muslims. But that’s not the case.’
The guy from Säpo looked as if didn’t know what to say, how to react.
‘Of course not,’ he managed eventually.
But it was obvious that he didn’t understand what this had to do with Karim Sassi, and Marina went on:
‘I presume you know that Karim was born and raised by two Christian parents who only go to church on Christmas Day?’
Their expressions gave them away, and Marina immediately exploded.
‘I don’t believe it! You looked at my Karim and saw a terrorist, just because he has his father’s name and colouring! You assumed that he was a Muslim, because that would make him fit in better in your imaginary world!’
‘Listen to me,’ the Säpo officer said, trying to turn things around. ‘We haven’t assumed anything, we’re just trying to work out why someone is interested in what happens to Zakaria Khelifi. And unfortunately, your son knows Khelifi, or at least used to know him, and he is flying the plane that has been hijacked by someone whose only contact so far has been through a note left in one of the toilets on board.’
As Fredrika listened, she thought her colleague was both right and wrong. At no point during the investigation had they put a label on the terrorists who were holding four hundred passengers hostage, but they had definitely assumed that there was an Islamic connection.
Because there was a connection in Zakaria Khelifi’s case.
And there was a connection when it came to Tennyson Cottage.
A suspicion was beginning to grow in Fredrika’s mind:
Karim is not the one who’s behind this. At least not alone.
On the other hand, terrorism had so many different faces. Who was to say it couldn’t look like Karim Sassi?
35 17:00
For the first time, Eden Lundell was standing smoking in the shelter down in the basement at Police HQ. A decision had been made to remove all smoking shelters, but for some reason the one in the basement had remained. In the past Eden wouldn’t have dreamt of smoking in there. It would have been beyond tragic. Until today. It was pouring with rain outside, and she wanted to stay away from the main entrance where reporters were hiding out in various vehicles.
She was pleased to find herself alone in the smoking shelter. If anyone had been sitting there when she arrived, she would have asked that person to leave. She needed to be on her own, to light a cigarette and think about everything that had happened during the course of the day.
It had really started the previous day, with the empty bomb threats. Eden still didn’t understand where they fitted into this drama. The next thing was the bomb threat found on a flight heading for the USA. Terrorism had once more raised its head in Sweden, severely shaking the Swedish self-image, which was so pathetic that Eden couldn’t take it seriously.
The image of Sweden as a country that didn’t deserve terrorism. The country that trumpeted its neutrality, yet co-operated on a military basis with both the EU and NATO. The country that thought it could draw on significant reserves of international goodwill, because for decades it had been regarded as pro-Palestinian. The country that regarded itself as a role model for other nations, in every respect. Crap, all of it. Times had changed, and it was necessary to adjust expectations, to accept the reality of the situation.
She glanced at her watch. Damn it, the girls needed picking up from day care. She had no choice, she would have to call Mikael and ask him to abandon his confirmation class. National security must come first.
Decisively, she stubbed out her cigarette on the shiny surface of the ashtray. The latest information from the Americans was that they were going to ask Karim to stay outside US airspace until further notice. That sounded sensible; once he had passed over the US border, anything could happen. A plan of action began to take shape in Eden’s mind. First of all, she wanted to find out what the interviews with Zakaria’s uncle and Karim’s mother had produced, if anything. Then she would turn every single scrap of information in Zakaria’s case inside out. There had to be a link between Zakaria and Tennyson Cottage, she was sure of it. It was there, right in front of them. She could feel it in her whole body. So why couldn’t she see it?
Alex Recht rarely, if ever, felt inadequate, but as he sat in the car with a female Säpo officer on the way to Traneberg to speak to Zakaria Khelifi’s uncle, he could tell that his anxiety over Erik was causing him to lose his edge. He wished he could have conducted this interview with Fredrika instead, but she had gone back to Kungsholmen to write a report for her department. He glanced at the colleague who was driving, and tried to remember her name. Viola? Vivianne?
He got his answer when her mobile rang and she answered.
‘Veronika.’
After a brief conversation, she ended the call.
‘A colleague,’ she said to Alex.
‘Right,’ he said, mostly for the sake of something to say.
After that they drove in silence. Through Kungsholmen, out onto the Traneberg Bridge. The view from up there was always magnificent, always stunningly beautiful. Stockholm was the loveliest capital city in the whole world. Alex’s own mobile rang, and he felt a warm glow in his chest when he saw that it was Diana.