Hostage Read online

  HOSTAGE

  KRISTINA OHLSSON is a political scientist and, until recently, held the position of Counter-Terrorism Officer at OSCE. She has previously worked at the Swedish Security Service, the Ministry for Foreign Affairs and the Swedish National Defence, where she was a junior expert on the Middle East conflict and the foreign policy of the European Union. Her debut novel, Unwanted, was published in Sweden in 2009 to terrific critical acclaim and all her novels have since been bestsellers. Kristina lives in Stockholm.

  Also by Kristina Ohlsson

  Unwanted

  Silenced

  The Disappeared

  MARLAINE DELARGY has translated works by many writers, including John Ajvide Lindqvist, Åsa Larsson, Anne Holt, Michael Hjorth / Hans Rosenfeldt, and Johan Theorin, with whom she won the CWA International Dagger in 2010.

  First published in Sweden by Piratförlaget under the title Paradisoffer, 2012

  First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2014

  A CBS COMPANY

  Copyright © Kristina Ohlsson, 2012. All rights reserved.

  Published by arrangement with the Salomonsson Agency.

  English translation copyright © Marlaine Delargy, 2014

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  No reproduction without permission.

  ® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.

  The right of Kristina Ohlsson to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

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  Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  TPB ISBN: 978-1-47111-519-6

  EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-47111-521-9

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Typeset by Hewer Text UK Ltd, Edinburgh

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon Cr0 4YY

  Contents

  WASHINGTON, DC, USA

  One day earlier MONDAY, 10 OCTOBER 2011

  1 STOCKHOLM, 12:27

  2 12:32

  3 12:32

  4 13:12

  5 13:35

  6 14:01

  7 16:03

  8 19:10

  9 21:35

  TUESDAY, 11 OCTOBER 2011

  10 FLIGHT 573, 09:03

  11 STOCKHOLM, 09:45

  12 10:45

  13 FLIGHT 573

  14 STOCKHOLM, 11:00

  15 WASHINGTON, DC, 05:02

  16 STOCKHOLM, 11:22

  17 11:45

  18 FLIGHT 573

  19 STOCKHOLM, 12:01

  20 12:01

  21 WASHINGTON, DC, 06:05

  22 STOCKHOLM, 12:15

  23 13:00

  24 13:15

  25 13:16

  26 13:45

  27 14:30

  28 14:45

  29 WASHINGTON, DC, 08:45

  30 FLIGHT 573

  31 STOCKHOLM, 15:45

  32 16:15

  33 16:18

  34 16:20

  35 17:00

  36 FLIGHT 573

  37 STOCKHOLM, 18:01

  38 FLIGHT 573

  39 STOCKHOLM, 18:30

  40 18:50

  41 FLIGHT 573

  42 STOCKHOLM, 19:00

  43 19:35

  44 19:50

  45 FLIGHT 573

  46 STOCKHOLM, 19:55

  47 19:55

  48 FLIGHT 573

  49 WASHINGTON, DC, 13:55

  50 STOCKHOLM, 20:10

  51 FLIGHT 573

  52 WASHINGTON, DC, 14:15

  53 STOCKHOLM, 20:15

  54 20:15

  55 FLIGHT 573

  56 STOCKHOLM, 20:35

  57 21:10

  58 21:50

  59 22:15

  60 FLIGHT 573

  61 STOCKHOLM, 22:30

  62 23:00

  63 FLIGHT 573

  64 STOCKHOLM, 23:05

  65 FLIGHT 573

  66 STOCKHOLM, 23:20

  67 WASHINGTON, DC, 17:22

  68 FLIGHT 573

  WEDNESDAY, 12 OCTOBER 2011

  69 STOCKHOLM, 00:11

  70 WASHINGTON, DC, 21:15

  71 STOCKHOLM, 05:06

  NOVEMBER 2011

  72

  WASHINGTON, DC, USA

  It is early evening as Flight 573 heads towards the USA. An endless network of runways stretches into the distance beyond the control tower where Bruce Johnson is waiting for news. The room is silent, and he scarcely notices that he is holding his breath. They still don’t know if the plane will be given permission to land.

  Bruce can see police cars and other emergency vehicles lined up next to one of the runways. A whole fleet of ambulances and fire engines. No one knows how this drama will end. Whether the whole thing will go disastrously wrong. He can’t see the men from the armed-response unit, dressed all in black, but Bruce knows they are waiting in the darkness with their guns at the ready. A thought passes through his mind:

  We shoot the hostage. That’s rule number one.

  He doesn’t know where that thought just came from. Shooting the hostage has never been a rule. No one in the FBI would ever think or act according to such a counter-productive principle. Rule number one is that we never, under any circumstances, negotiate with terrorists.

  And that applies right here and now. Their refusal to compromise has guided their actions ever since the plane took off from Arlanda airport just outside Stockholm, a city that Bruce has wanted to visit for a long time. But he doesn’t really believe he will ever get there. Why would someone like him ever travel to Sweden?

  The plane is a 1989 jumbo jet. It is carrying over four hundred passengers. Now it has run out of fuel, and the pilot is begging for permission to land.

  Bruce isn’t sure what is going to happen next. He is still waiting for instructions from his boss. In Sweden, it must be almost eleven thirty at night. Bruce knows what a lack of sleep can do to a person, and he is keeping that in mind. No doubt his colleagues in Stockholm are thinking along the same lines, but they have been left with no choice. During all the hours that have passed, he has been in touch with the same group of people in Sweden; it has been too intense to bring in replacements. Someone mentioned something about the light in Sweden, the fact that the sun is up for such a long time in the summer, and therefore, the Swedes sleep less, even when it is autumn, as it is now. Perhaps that’s true.

  No other planes are using the airspace above the airport. All incoming flights have been diverted to other cities, and all outgoing fights have had to delay their departure times. The media have been banned from the complex, but Bruce knows that they will be on-site: far away, beyond the perimeter fence, using telephoto lenses that enable them to see all the way to China, snapping one blurred image after another.

  The sound of the telephone ringing makes him jump. It’s his boss.

  ‘They’ve made a decision. It’s bad news.’

  Bruce puts down the phone and reaches for another handset. He sits there, holding it in his hand for a few moments, before keying in the number he now knows by heart, then waits for Eden to pick up.

  The sentence has been passed – the plane will not reach its destination.

  They have opted for the rule that did not exist.

  Th
e hostage will die.

  One day earlier

  MONDAY, 10 OCTOBER 2011

  1

  STOCKHOLM, 12:27

  Once innocence was lost, it could never be regained.

  He had thought this on countless occasions. As far as Sweden was concerned, it had begun with the assassination attempt on Drottninggatan right in the middle of the Christmas-shopping rush in Stockholm. Sweden had its first suicide bomber, and the shock waves spread throughout the whole country. What next? Would Sweden become one of those countries whose citizens dared not venture out for fear of terrorist attacks?

  No one had been more worried than the Prime Minister.

  ‘How do we learn to live with this?’ he had asked over a glass of cognac late one night in Rosenbad, the government offices in the city centre.

  There was no clear answer to that.

  The consequences had been devastating. Not from a material point of view – physical things could be repaired. However, many emotional and moral values had been shattered. As the newly appointed Minister for Justice, he had been astonished to see the shaken individuals demanding new laws in order to make society safer, and had treated them with caution. The government party that opposed immigration capitalised on the situation and made one statement after another.

  ‘We have to take a firm approach on the issue of terrorism,’ the Foreign Secretary had said when the government met for the first time after the attack.

  As if she was the only one who realised this.

  They had all looked hopefully at the new Minister for Justice, who had taken up his post only weeks after the terrorist attack in Stockholm.

  Muhammed Haddad.

  Sometimes he wondered if they had known what was to come, and had handpicked him for the post. As an alibi. As the only person who could take necessary action without anyone being able to call him a racist. Sweden’s first Muslim Minister for Justice. A newcomer to the party who had never met any opposition during his short career. Sometimes it sickened him. He knew that he was given preferential treatment because of his ethnic and religious background. Not that he didn’t deserve his success. He had been a brilliant lawyer, and had realised at an early stage that he wanted to devote himself to criminal law. His clients had dubbed him the miracle worker. He wasn’t satisfied with winning; he also demanded redress. He had been fifteen years old when he came to Sweden; now he was forty-five and knew that he would never return to his homeland, the Lebanon.

  His secretary knocked and stuck her head around the door.

  ‘Säpo called. They’ll be here in half an hour.’

  He had been expecting the call. The Security Service, known as Säpo, wanted to discuss a high-security matter, and Muhammed had made it clear that he wished to take the meeting in person, even though this was not common practice.

  ‘How many of them are coming?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘And Eden Lundell?’

  ‘She’s coming too.’

  Muhammed felt calmer. ‘Show them into the large conference room. Tell the others we’ll meet there five minutes beforehand.’

  2

  12:32

  ‘I need to go soon. There’s a meeting I have to attend.’

  Fredrika Bergman looked at her watch, then at her former boss, who was sitting opposite her.

  Alex Recht shrugged.

  ‘No problem, we’ll have a longer catch-up some other time.’

  She smiled at him warmly.

  ‘I’d really like that.’

  One of the disadvantages of no longer working at Police HQ in Kungsholmen was the lack of decent places for lunch. At the moment, they were in a mediocre Asian restaurant on Drottninggatan. Alex’s choice, not hers.

  ‘Next time, you can decide where we meet,’ Alex said, as if he could read her mind.

  Which he could. Fredrika was rarely good at hiding her feelings.

  ‘There aren’t that many places to choose from.’

  She pushed away her plate. The meeting was due to begin in half an hour, and she ought to be back fifteen minutes beforehand. She tried to interpret the silence that had descended over their table. Perhaps they had already dealt with everything there was to say – straightforward matters that couldn’t possibly lead to unnecessarily painful discussions. They had talked about Alex’s new job with the National Bureau of Investigation. About how much Fredrika was enjoying her temporary post with the Justice Department. About her year on maternity leave in New York with her second child, Isak; Spencer, her husband, had been given a research post there.

  ‘You should have told us you were getting married – we would have come along,’ Alex said for the second or third time.

  Fredrika shifted uncomfortably on her chair.

  ‘We got married in secret. Even my parents weren’t there.’

  Her mother still hadn’t forgiven her.

  ‘They didn’t try to recruit you in the USA?’ Alex said with a wry smile.

  ‘Who? NYPD?’

  He nodded.

  ‘No, unfortunately. That really would have been a challenge.’

  ‘I was there on a course once. The Yanks are like everybody else. Good at some things, bad at others.’

  Fredrika couldn’t comment on that point. She hadn’t worked for one single hour during her time in New York. Her entire existence had revolved around the two children, and on the task of getting Spencer back on his feet. Nothing had been the same since a student had accused him of rape two years ago. When they discovered that Fredrika was expecting their second child, they had initially agreed that a termination was the only way out.

  ‘We can’t cope with another child,’ Spencer had said.

  ‘It’s not the right time,’ Fredrika had agreed.

  Then they had gazed at one another for a long time.

  ‘We’re keeping it,’ Spencer said.

  ‘That’s exactly how I feel,’ Fredrika said.

  Alex put down his coffee cup with a clatter.

  ‘I thought you’d come back. To the police.’

  ‘You mean after New York?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The noise of the other diners suddenly seemed intrusive.

  Forgive me, she wanted to say. Forgive me for making you wait, even though I knew I had no intention of coming back.

  But not one word passed her lips.

  ‘On the other hand, I understand that you couldn’t turn down a job with the Justice Department,’ Alex said. ‘It’s not every day you get an offer like that.’

  It wasn’t an offer. I went after the bloody job, because I knew that my soul would rot if I came back to Kungsholmen.

  Fredrika pushed back a strand of hair from her face.

  ‘That’s true.’

  There was nothing more to say. After the case involving the writer who refused to speak and the graves in Midsommarkransen that Alex and his team had investigated in the spring of 2009, everything hads started to fall apart. When Margareta Berlin, the head of Human Resources, had called Alex into her office to tell him that the special unit he had led for the past few years was to be dissolved, the news was far from unexpected. The team was running on empty, and Alex was putting all his energy into his relationship with Diana Trolle, the new woman in his life, while Fredrika had fallen pregnant.

  ‘Have you heard from Peder?’

  Alex gave a start when he heard Peder’s name.

  ‘No – how about you?’

  She shook her head sadly.

  ‘Not since he cleared his office. But I did hear . . . that he wasn’t doing too well.’

  ‘I heard the same.’ Alex cleared his throat. ‘I bumped into Ylva last week. She told me a bit about how things had been.’

  Fredrika tried to imagine the hell Peder was living through, but it was impossible. She didn’t know how many times she had tried, but it was always equally difficult.

  Some things just don’t heal. However hard we fight.

  She knew that Alex had a different vi
ew of the situation: he felt that Peder ought to pull himself together and move on. Which was why she hadn’t mentioned it before.

  ‘He’s got to stop behaving as if he has a monopoly on grief,’ Alex said, using the same words as he always did when they attempted to talk about what had happened. ‘He’s not the only one who’s lost someone close.’

  Alex had lost his wife Lena to cancer, so he knew the dark depths of grief. But it seemed to Fredrika that there were essential differences between losing someone to cancer and having a brother murdered by a ruthless killer.

  ‘I don’t think Peder’s in a state where he can make decisions about how he’s feeling,’ she said, choosing her words with care. ‘His grief has become an illness.’

  ‘But he’s asked for help, and he’s been given help. And he’s still no better.’

  They fell silent, reluctant to pursue the discussion. They knew that if they did, they would end up falling out, as usual.

  ‘I really do have to make a move.’

  Fredrika started to gather up her things. Handbag, scarf, jacket.

  ‘You know I’ll always keep the door open for you.’

  She stopped in mid-movement, thinking that no, she hadn’t actually known that at all.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You were one of the best, Fredrika.’

  Her cheeks grew hot and her vision was suddenly blurred.

  Alex looked as if he was about to say something else, but she put a stop to that by getting to her feet. They left the restaurant together and, in the middle of Drottninggatan, Alex held out his arms and gave her a hug.

  ‘I miss you too,’ Fredrika whispered.

  Then they went their separate ways.

  Detective Inspector Alex Recht had a distinguished career behind him. He had spent many years in the police service, with considerable success. In 2007, his efforts had been rewarded: he was asked to form a special investigation team. It would be small, but would bring together the most competent individuals. Additional resources would be available when necessary. Alex had started by recruiting the relatively young but driven Peder Rydh; he had proved himself to be a talented and conscientious investigator, but his temperament could be volatile, and his judgement was sometimes flawed. With hindsight, Alex had asked himself if he was partly to blame for the tragedy that had occurred two years ago, resulting in Peder’s dismissal from the police service. He didn’t think so. It had been a terrible case, and the price had been high for all those involved.