Last Will (14 page)

The American looked ever-so-slightly shocked.

“But of course,” he said, “of course. Naturally, everything will be conducted legally and correctly.”

He took a step forward and nudged Anton on the shoulder.

“This is going to go just fine,” he said. “Shall we go?”

Anton Abrahamsson lumbered after the American toward the terminal, unable to shake off his sense of unease.

They walked into the terminal through one of the gates and went quickly over to the room deep inside the terminal that had been placed at the disposal of the security police.

Inside they were holding Jemal Ali Ahmed prisoner, hands and feet bound. He had been there most of the night and his face was completely gray. Anton’s two colleagues were dozing on their seats just inside the door.

“Okay,” George said, turning round. “Check him out.”

Behind Anton a row of hooded men stepped inside the room. They were wearing overalls and had masks over their faces, and were carrying various types of equipment.

Anton Abrahamsson opened his mouth to protest, but was taken gently off to one side by George.

“This will only take a minute,” the American said with a smile.

Anton Abrahamsson’s colleagues were jostled into a corner of the room with their boss. Speechless, they watched as two masked men stepped up and pulled the prisoner to his feet. Jemal Ali Ahmed, who hadn’t seen them coming, reacted instinctively and threw himself backward against the wall, screaming.

“On the floor,” George ordered.

“Aren’t you going to do anything?” one of his officers said to Anton.

“Like what, exactly?” Anton Abrahamsson replied.

The prisoner was pushed to the floor, and his terrified eyes met Anton’s.

“Help me!” the man cried in Swedish. “Please, help me!”

Anton Abrahamsson stared at him, unable to move. The CIA agents pulled off the prisoner’s shoes as he kicked and screamed. Three agents held him down as he squirmed like a worm. They cut his clothes off him, socks and trousers, underwear, jacket, and shirt.

“Check the cavities,” George said, and the men pulled the prisoner upright again. His eyes were bloodshot, his face running with saliva. The agents pulled off the last remnants of his clothes until he was left standing completely naked in the cold room, his hands and feet still bound. He sobbed and snorted as they forced his mouth open, his whole skinny body shaking. They poked about in his mouth, shone lights and stuck things in his ears, pulled up his balls and examined his genitals.

When one of the men drove a finger inside his anus he roared out loud.

Anton Abrahamsson turned to face his colleagues.

“I think it’s time to go home and make our report,” he said.

The Swedish security police left the room together.

The echo of the prisoner’s screams cut off as soon the they closed the door.

Annika walked through the gates of the nursery school with her children, carrying bags full of tinsel for the St. Lucia festivities, elf outfits, and saffron Lucia buns. The Lucia celebrations weren’t due to start until the afternoon, a day late, but what did such details matter? The children had been practicing for weeks and now there was going to be some serious singing.

It was hot and crowded in the main nursery school room. Ellen slowly and carefully pulled out Poppy and Ludde, her favorite stuffed toys, as well as her electric crown of candles, and put them on her shelf. Annika could feel herself breaking into a sweat and glanced at her watch. An inflexible timetable meant that she’d have to leave work at quarter to four at the latest if she was going to catch the Lucia procession. Thomas had already announced that he wouldn’t be able to make it. He had yet another meeting with Per Cramne from the department that afternoon, and wasn’t to be disturbed.

Finally Ellen was finished sorting her things and could be handed over to the nursery school staff, who were just laying out breakfast.

“She’s already eaten,” Annika said, then took Kalle with her to kindergarten next door.

As soon as he got inside the building, he collapsed into a roaring heap of arms and legs together with the other boys, as usual. He had spent the morning complaining noisily about having to be an elf, demanding instead to be allowed to be a vampire. Annika had explained that that wouldn’t really work in a Lucia procession, and after a lot of whimpering and gnashing of teeth he had finally agreed.

Sunday had been calm and peaceful. Thomas, who had got home from Vaxholm in the early hours, had been hungover and spent most
of the day sitting at his computer. Annika had started getting ready for Christmas with the children, and had managed to get the washing done and do a bit of research into Professor Lars-Henry Svensson and his connection to the Karolinska Institute.

They’d ordered in pizzas for dinner.

Now she left the children behind her and fled.

When the nursery door closed behind her she always felt a huge sense of relief. Hours of unbroken concentration lay ahead of her; she could take possession of her own brain right up to 3:45
PM
. The sun was coming up; it looked like it was going to be a cold, clear day.

She quickly pulled her cell phone out of her bag and called Spike’s direct line at the news desk. He answered with his usual grunt.

“In half an hour there’s a press conference in the Wallenberg Room of the Nobel Forum out at the Karolinska Institute,” Annika said. “Do you think we ought to cover it?”

Spike groaned, and it sounded like he was putting in a wad of chewing tobacco.

“We don’t really care, do we?”

“They’ll probably make some sort of announcement,” Annika said. “I thought Nobel and the Karolinska Institute were fairly interesting topics at the moment, but what do I know?”

Spike rustled some paper.

“Fairly interesting won’t do today,” he said. “Go and make sure we aren’t missing anything, but don’t think you’re going to get a novel out of it.”

He hung up without waiting for a reply.

Annika caught the number 1 bus on Fleminggatan from the corner of Scheelegatan, took it as far as Sankt Eriksgatan and changed to the number 3, which went all the way to the Karolinska Hospital.

The entrance to Nobels väg was thick with cars and people.

Masses of dark-gray suits, today covered with dark overcoats, were wandering about and talking into their collars. Anna zigzagged her way to the entrance to number one, Nobels väg, the same building she had visited on Friday.

“Accreditation, please.”

A dark-gray figure was standing in front of her, with a wire in his ear, holding out his hand.

“Er…,” Annika said, unaware that any accreditation was necessary.

“She’s with me,” she heard a voice say behind her, and spun around.

Bosse from the other evening paper was standing there with his press card and his filled-in documentation. He had a big woolly hat pulled down over his forehead and a knitted scarf wound around his neck. His eyes were dazzlingly blue. Annika felt a shiver in her stomach and gave him an embarrassed smile.

And she’s dancing with me, we’re dancing in the Golden Hall beneath the gaze of the Queen of the Mälaren, she’s so light in my arms and I want to be here forever …

“Getting a bit sloppy with the groundwork?” Bosse whispered, strands of his blond hair sticking out around his ears.

Annika laughed quietly; she had to laugh even though there was nothing amusing in the situation.

“Shall we go in?” Bosse said, offering her his arm.

They walked down a long pillared corridor, the windows stretching to the floor, letting in the morning glow. On the opposite wall were dark doors concealing unknown rooms. A thin trickle of academics and journalists was heading in the same direction as they were.

“You haven’t written anything about the banquet,” Bosse said, glancing at her.

“I have my reasons,” she said.

He stopped in front of her and looked at her hard.

“Is it true that you helped them come up with the photofit?”

She was aware that her eyes were open wide, and she paused for breath.

“I won’t write anything about it,” he said, “I’m just worried about you. Have you got anyone you can talk to?”

She nodded, he took a step to the side, and they walked on.

“You can always talk to me,” he said. “I never reveal my sources.”

They reached another security check, and had to pass through a scanner before being waved through to the auditorium.

The Wallenberg Room was at the far end of the ground floor. They were funneled through a disproportionately small doorway, and found themselves in a red hall containing twenty or so curved rows of seats, with a small stage at the front. The room swallowed up a couple of hundred people; it wasn’t going to be anywhere near full.

Annika and Bosse sat slightly behind most of the others. Their legs were rather too close together, but neither of them moved. Annika felt the contact as a crackling warmth running through her body.

“Have you heard anything about the investigation?” she whispered, leaning even closer to him.

“The boat they escaped in was stolen in Nacka in August,” he whispered back, his hand sliding along her arm.

She turned away quickly, scared by her own reaction. Damn it, she would have been prepared to jump into bed with this guy, right this minute.

She moved her leg and focused on the rest of the gathering, trying to work out who the other journalists were. She recognized the science editor of the prestigious morning paper, and presumed that the others had similar credentials.

Up on the stage a group of people who definitely weren’t journalists was gathering. There’s something impenetrable about reporters at a press conference, they would never whisper and chat as much as these people were, never let their body language reveal any sort of emotion.

“Who are that lot?” Bosse whispered, pointing without touching her, and at that moment Annika recognized Birgitta Larsén’s henna-red hair in the crowd.

“Scientists,” Annika whispered back, “maybe members of the Nobel Assembly or the Committee. The woman in the striped jacket is a professor here. I’ve met her before.”

Some of the scientists had broken off and were conferring, heads close together. Annika noted that the others pulled back from them and kept their distance.

I wonder what they’re whispering about, she thought.

The rows of seats were gradually filling up around them with a mix of media people, staff, and students. The room was approximately half full when the doors were closed and the press conference could begin.

On the stage stood a large portrait of a smiling Caroline von Behring, with a large wreath of flowers next to it. Annika looked into the dead woman’s eyes, recognizing her gaze all too well. Beside the portrait was a conference table with chairs, microphones, and names, and there were three men seated behind it.

“Yes, well,” the first one said, tapping gently on his microphone, “if we could all settle down, then we’ll begin.”

He was a thickset man, almost fat, dressed in a black suit and bright-red tie. The sign in front of him said he was the Vice-Chair of the Nobel Committee, Professor Sören Hammarsten. His hands was small and unusually white, as if he were suffering from the same pigmentation disorder that Michael Jackson was supposed to have had.

“I would like to welcome you all to this press conference, where we have something extremely exciting and interesting to announce,” Sören Hammarsten said. “But first of all I would like to say a few words in memory of our recently deceased chairperson.”

He turned toward the portrait. The man beside him, whose sign said he was Ernst Ericsson, Head of MEM, pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose quietly.

MEM, Annika thought, that’s the Department of Medical Epidemiology and Molecular Biology. The department where Caroline von Behring worked.

“Dear Caroline,” Sören Hammarsten said, in a voice straining with emotion. “You will always be with us in our hearts, in our research, and in our history. You guided the whole institute toward greater recognition, and you worked magnificently as the custodian of Alfred Nobel’s last will and testament …”

“Sacrilege!” a man in the front row suddenly shouted, and the whole room tried to see who it was.

Sören Hammarsten pretended not to have heard him.

“And no matter how difficult it might feel today,” he said, “it is our duty to look ahead. That is what Caroline would have wanted. For that
reason we must all continue working for the future, for Caroline’s sake, and in the spirit of Alfred Nobel …”

“You’re betraying Nobel’s memory!” the man in the front row shouted again. “You’re playing at being God and exploiting Alfred Nobel’s testament to justify your own egotistical ambitions.”

Sören Hammarsten leaned toward the microphone, his bald spot glinting in the beam of a spotlight.

“Lars-Henry,” he said. “If you can’t keep your objections to yourself, I shall have to ask you to leave the room.”

The noisy man responded by standing up. He shook his fist toward the podium, his voice rising to a falsetto.

“Nemesis!” he shouted. “You ought to watch out! Nemesis has already struck, and she will strike again!”

“And who do we have here?” Bosse asked, and Annika leaned toward him as she replied.

“I think his name is Lars-Henry Svensson—he’s a professor and a member of the Nobel Assembly. He wrote a rather confused opinion piece for us on Saturday.”

“Divine retribution!” Lars-Henry Svensson cried. “Nemesis, you have truly challenged her!”

“Security,” Sören Hammarsten said into the microphone. “Can we have security to the Wallenberg Room …”

The narrow door flew open and a whole battery of dark suits streamed into the room.

The third man up on the stage leaned back in his chair, unable to conceal an amused smile. He was, apparently, Bernhard Thorell, MD, of Medi-Tec Group Ltd., and he was considerably younger than the other men. He might have been in his forties, and looked completely different: suntanned, in good shape, wearing a dark Italian suit.

“Nobel’s testament is inviolable!” Lars-Henry Svensson cried. “Yet we still break it, over and over again. And Nemesis, his final wish, we keep that well hidden …”