Ultimatum Page 9

  Amante said nothing. But she was sure he was listening carefully—that he understood exactly what she meant. The light of the car’s headlights reflected off a pair of eyes at the side of the road. She noticed a fleeting movement and switched her foot from the accelerator to the brake, but the animal was gone. A cat, or maybe a fox?

  “You said you didn’t know all the details about Skarpö,” she said. “There were two other people who were found out there with Sarac. Right beside him, to be more accurate.”

  Amante turned to look at her. “Who were they?”

  “The first one was a woman, Natalie Aden. She worked as Sarac’s personal assistant after his car accident. Her intervention saved Sarac’s life. We should at least talk to her. Show her Frank’s picture and see if she recognizes him. But I think we ought to start with the second person. If anyone can identify Frank, it’s probably him.”

  “Who are we talking about?”

  “Atif Kassab. Seven years ago he was a notorious member of the Stockholm underworld. A nasty bastard. He retired and left the country with his mother. Didn’t show up again until last winter, at his brother’s funeral. Looks like someone managed to persuade him to go back to work.” She dimmed the lights as a car came toward them. “Kassab blew Superintendent Peter Molnar’s brains out on Skarpö, along with another three people, and took a couple of bullets himself. It looked like he wasn’t going to make it for a while, but thanks to Natalie Aden’s actions he survived as well.”

  Unfortunately, she added to herself.

  “Kassab said nothing when he was questioned, and kept quiet all the way through his trial: never said a word about why he was on the island or who had hired his services. He was given a life sentence—didn’t even bother to appeal against it.”

  “Strange.”

  Julia nodded. “Very. But there are plenty of things about Skarpö that are strange. Atif Kassab is being held in one of the ‘phoenix’ high-security units south of the city. It’s a long shot, but I suggest we go and see him as soon as possible.”

  “So we’re going to ask a cop killer for his help?”

  “Yes, to track down another one,” Julia said. “What do you think?”

  Amante didn’t answer, but from the corner of her eye Julia caught another glimpse of that cryptic smile.

  Six

  Phoenix. The bird that catches fire, dies in the flames, and is then reborn out of its own ashes with shimmering new plumage.

  The name couldn’t be more inappropriate. No one in the prison was transformed into a better version of himself and emerging as a new, well-adapted individual with sparkling new feathers, ready to be embraced by society. The majority would end up back behind bars within a couple of years, for crimes just as bad as the first time around.

  Maybe that was the cycle of repetition that the name hinted at? A sort of ironic wink: We all know how this is going to turn out, don’t we?

  Atif Kassab pushed his breakfast tray aside and laid three cards facedown on the table in front of him. He noticed himself looking up at the camera in the ceiling above him. One of several hundred. The phoenix units were built to house the most dangerous prisoners in the country, those deemed most likely to try to escape. No doors or gates led to the outside world; the only way out was through an underground tunnel that led to another unit. A prison inside a prison.

  He looked at the men at the other tables in the dayroom. Fifteen of them in total, an interesting mix of murderers, drug dealers, and bank robbers. They weren’t all particularly dangerous or likely to abscond. The state had overestimated the capacity needed in the phoenix units and had had to dilute their occupants with ordinary criminals to keep the smart new facilities from sitting half-empty.

  But a number of the men had no boundaries at all. In the wrong situation they could be lethal, both to themselves and those around them. The big, square guy at the table in the middle, the wall-eyed one called Rosco, was the current unofficial boss of the unit. Rosco had come over and introduced himself in the first few days. Shook hands gangster-style, spouted a load of names of people Atif didn’t know and gangs he’d never heard of. In here he was a cop killer, someone viewed with respect. But the conversation was about more than mere pleasantries. Rosco was evaluating him, trying to work out if he was a threat, if he was going to upset the balance of power.

  Atif had no interest at all in prison politics. He kept himself to himself, read books, and worked out in the small gym. Rubber straps and Pilates balls. No weights, nothing that could, according to Prison Service regulations, turn already dangerous criminals into mountains of muscle. But the exercise on offer was enough for his body to recuperate gradually from its injuries. The doctors had removed four meters of gut, drained almost a liter of blood from his torso, and patched up a number of less serious injuries. He had survived, and he knew whom he had to thank for that. He hoped he would be able to convey his thanks in person one day.

  Atif stared blankly at the cards in front of him, then closed his eyes. He tried to conjure up an image of his house back home in Iraq. The scent of the almond tree in the back garden. The starry sky up above. But in spite of the fact that he regularly tried to keep the memory alive, it was getting hazier, losing its color, like the old pictures in his mother’s well-thumbed photo albums. Pale imitations of what had once been. Something that was now lost. He wondered how she was. If she was still in the nursing home in Najaf, or if his aunt had moved her farther south, away from the fighting in the north. He’d written a couple of times, hoping to hear if the money was arriving each month. But he hadn’t yet received a reply.

  Atif turned the first card over. The seven of hearts. Tindra had turned seven three weeks ago. He’d sent her a card. He came close to writing that he missed her, that he’d do anything to hear her voice, no matter how briefly. But he didn’t want her to come here. To have to go through all the security checks just so they could sit on opposite sides of a table. He still wouldn’t be able to hold her.

  Besides, her mother would never let her visit him. Cassandra needed to keep him as far away from her as possible, a decision he couldn’t blame her for. He had wounded and killed people last winter, people who had families, friends, and business acquaintances outside the prison walls. People who were waiting for a chance to get their revenge. But as long as Abu Hamsa was protecting Cassandra and Tindra, no one would dare do anything. Which was rather ironic, to put it mildly, given that the old man was his worst enemy. Abu Hamsa had manipulated him, commissioned him to track down a ghost when it was actually the old man himself who had had Adnan killed, leaving Tindra without a father.

  Abu Hamsa had sent him a message via Cassandra. Don’t tell the police anything, serve your sentence, follow my instructions. She hadn’t needed to say more than that. Didn’t have to utter the words that were hanging in the air.

  Or else . . .

  So Atif had played along. He followed Abu Hamsa’s instructions obediently, played patience and waited to be dealt the right cards. Something that changed the field of play.

  Atif moved his hand to the card next to the seven of hearts. But before he could turn it over, the door of the dayroom opened and the head screw, Blom, walked in. He looked like a cover boy from Men’s Health. High cheekbones, spray tan, and short, tinted hair in a gentle wave across his forehead. Right behind him, between another two gym-pumped screws, Atif could just make out a birdlike little man in prison clothes that were too big for him.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” the head screw said, as always slightly louder than necessary. “This is our latest resident. Perhaps you’d like to introduce yourself, Gilsén?”

  Blom stepped aside. The little man remained where he was between the two guards, clutching the paper bag he was holding in his hands. The smell of his fear managed to overpower Blom’s body lotion.

  The senior guard waited another few seconds. Exchanged a malicious glance
with his colleagues.

  “Well, I daresay you’ll all have time to chew the fat later on. Follow me, Gilsén, and we’ll get you installed in your suite. It’s probably not quite up to the standard you’re used to.”

  The guards lumbered out of the dayroom with Gilsén between them. Atif watched the men over at Rosco’s table lean closer to each other, covering their mouths so that the cameras and microphones wouldn’t pick up what they were saying.

  A few minutes later the guards returned without Gilsén. Atif watched them from the corner of his eye. Waited.

  The head screw glanced quickly at Rosco. The square man looked up and for a moment seemed to meet Blom’s gaze. Then the guards left the dayroom.

  Atif turned the next card over. Ace of spades.

  He held it in his hand for a few seconds. Imagined he could almost hear Abu Hamsa’s hoarse voice.

  Follow my instructions.

  Or else . . .

  A heavily built, tattooed blond thug—Atif had never bothered to remember his name—and a bearded Turk of much the same caliber stood up from Rosco’s table. They slipped off toward the cells without any hurry. As they passed Atif, one of the men nodded toward him. Atif didn’t return the greeting. Instead he turned the third card over.

  A joker. He must have forgotten to remove them before he started to play solitaire. He picked it up and carefully folded it until it formed a solid little rectangle that he put in his top pocket. Then he got slowly to his feet and followed the two men.

  • • •

  If you take an ordinary pencil, sharpen it properly, and strengthen the shaft by wrapping tape around it fifty times, you’ll have made a primitive but functional weapon. A single stab won’t be fatal—at least, not if you’re inexperienced, are in too much of a rush, and aim for the heart and snap the pencil against a rib. Someone with more experience would aim at the softer parts of the body, the sides of the torso or the throat. Then make several shallow jabs and hope to hit an artery or an organ full of blood, like the liver or kidneys.

  But if you’re really serious, you work in pairs. Attack the torso and throat at the same time. And stab so many times that the victim is eventually left swimming in his own blood.

  The two men who opened the unlocked door to Joachim Gilsén’s cell were both experienced and serious.

  “Hello, Gilsén, we’d like a word with you,” the tattooed man said, stepping aside to let his associate in.

  The little man leaped up from his bed. Saw the improvised weapons in the man’s fists.

  “Guys, w-we . . .” He held his hands up in front of him, but the two men shepherded him toward the far corner of the cell.

  “Hang on a m-minute. We can talk about this. I’ve got money, I can get . . .”

  The tattooed man put his hand on Gilsén’s chest. Pushed him slowly, almost gently, back against the wall.

  “H-Help! Help me, someone!”

  The bearded man grabbed hold of Gilsén’s jaw and forced his chin up until the man’s cries became a gurgle. He raised the weapon toward his exposed throat.

  “Tell us about the money . . .”

  Atif kept his arm almost completely outstretched, using the force in his hip and the speed from the two rapid steps that carried him into the cell. He hit the bearded man in the back of the neck, right where the nerves, muscles, and spine meet. A silent, brutal blow that reverberated all the way from his clenched fist to his teeth. The bearded man collapsed like he’d been hit by a sledgehammer.

  The tattooed man turned around with a look of astonishment as Atif kicked him in the crotch. He fell to his knees and dropped his weapon as his hands went automatically to his crown jewels. Atif grabbed hold of his bull neck and kneed him in the face. He let the inert body fall to the floor and took a couple of steps back.

  “Are you . . . okay?”

  Gilsén didn’t answer; he just stood there, glued to the wall with his eyes wide open. Atif felt the adrenaline burning in his throat and struggled to subdue the nausea it brought with it.

  “Are you okay?” he repeated, gently touching the little man’s arm.

  Gilsén took a gasping breath that sounded almost like a sob.

  “They, they tried . . .” He stared at the two men on the floor and the weapons lying by his feet. One of the men groaned feebly and Gilsén hurried toward the bed in horror. He slumped down onto it, wrapped his arms round his knees, and began to rock back and forth.

  In the distance an alarm sounded.

  “W-Why?” Gilsén stammered a few seconds later. “Why did you help me?”

  Atif straightened up. “Let’s just say that someone outside is concerned about your welfare.”

  “Abu Hamsa. The deal . . .”

  Atif waited for the rest, but before Gilsén could go on, the cell door was yanked open. Blom rushed in, followed by three more guards with drawn batons.

  “Hands in the air, Kassab!” the head guard shouted. In one hand he was holding a can of pepper spray the size of a small fire extinguisher. Atif obeyed and had already laced his fingers together behind his head when Blom pressed the button.

  Atif’s eyes caught fire and his airways shrank to the size of straws. The pain made him double over. Bloody hell, an eight, verging on a nine. One of the guards struck him on the thigh with his baton as hard as he could. Gym muscles, more air than real strength, and the blow was nowhere near as painful as the spray in his eyes. But Atif played along, groaning out loud and staggering. Better that than have the idiot continue to hit him and maybe take aim at something more sensitive than his thigh muscles.

  The guards threw themselves at him, tugging at his arms. They tried to kick his legs out from under him, in line with the self-defense manual. Atif put up no resistance, letting them force him down against the concrete floor. He twisted his head to one side and through a cloud of tears saw Gilsén still rocking back and forth on the bed.

  A joker, Atif thought as the guards put cuffs on him. A card that can mean absolutely anything.

  Seven

  The underground tunnel leading from the ordinary prison into the phoenix unit was several hundred meters long. At intervals along the roof sat dark spherical cameras, which, along with the airlocks, suggested that people there took security extremely seriously. Yet Julia and Amante had found it considerably easier getting in there than in the nursing home the day before. Her police ID, a quick check on the computer to make sure she was who she claimed to be, and then they got the green light. She had been worried that someone would ask why they had turned up unannounced on a Sunday. Maybe even get it into their head to call Pärson. But none of that happened.

  She had sat in when Atif Kassab was questioned last winter. Just as an observer rather than as lead interviewer. As usual, she sat quietly and let others do the talking while she concentrated on observing Kassab. But neither she nor the lead interviewers got much out of it. Kassab’s body language was almost as taciturn as his verbal responses. The only time Julia detected any sort of reaction was when his sister-in-law, Cassandra, and niece, Tindra, were mentioned. That caused an almost imperceptible change in him. His threatening air of pent-up energy softened slightly, only to switch back the moment the interviewer changed the subject.

  Their escort showed them into a small room with a dark-glass observation window set into one wall. Shortly afterward a very fit, suntanned man appeared in the doorway. He was holding a folder under one arm.

  “Blom,” he said by way of introduction. “Prison Service, assistant director.”

  “Julia Gabrielsson. This is my colleague Amante.” As the two men shook hands, she saw the light go on in the room on the other side of the observation window, illuminating a table and two chairs. Three men entered the room, two prison officers on either side of Atif Kassab.

  “What’s happened to him?” Julia watched as the guards roughly pushed Kassab do
wn onto one of the chairs. His face was red and swollen and his eyes were streaming.

  “You mean the cuffs?” Inspector Blom grinned. His exaggeratedly white teeth, combined with his muscular body, jerky movements, and chemical suntan, made him look a bit like an action figure. “Just a security measure. Kassab was involved in a little altercation this morning.”

  “What about?”

  “Nothing much. There usually aren’t any reasons, at least none that seem logical to us normal people. It could be anything: a gambling debt, someone looking at him the wrong way or sitting in his place in the dayroom. Maybe someone pinched his dessert.”

  Blom was still smiling, evidently waiting for her to respond. He turned toward Amante when she failed to oblige.

  “Everyone here in our phoenix unit is extremely dangerous. They can appear nice and calm—pleasant, even. But it’s not a good idea to turn your back on them. Especially not that one.” He nodded toward the room on the other side of the glass.

  “How long has he been here?” Amante said.

  “Three months, give or take.”

  “Has he been involved in altercations before?”

  Blom shook his head.

  “Visitors?” Julia said.

  “I thought you might want to know that.” Blom opened the folder he had been carrying under his arm and leafed through to the right page. “Three visits in total. Two from his lawyer and one from a Cassandra Nygren. It says here that she’s—”

  “His sister-in-law,” Julia said. “Or rather she used to be the partner of Kassab’s younger brother Adnan before he died last year. They have a daughter, Tindra. Kassab’s niece.”

  Blom nodded. “He has a picture of her in his cell. One of the few personal items he’s got, apart from a few books. If it had been me, I’d have asked for a couple of pictures of the mother as well. She’s definitely worth a look.” He grinned at Amante, but the smile vanished when he saw the look in the other man’s eyes.