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  She ought to speak to Martin about this, she realised. So that he could have a chat with their son about it – right away, while it was still a hot topic. Martin was a guy, too, and probably knew more about how boys of that age worked. If they threatened a total ban, then it would probably just make it more appealing.

  When Sara went towards the sofa to wake her husband, his mobile was flashing on the coffee table. Sara thought it might be Ebba looking for a lift – she usually contacted Martin when that was the case. Partly because Sara usually worked late, partly because it was much easier to persuade her dad to chauffeur her around.

  She picked up Martin’s mobile and pressed on the screen. There was a new message. She entered his PIN and opened the messaging app to select the most recent one. It was from an unregistered number.

  It was a picture message.

  A close-up of a female sexual organ with a piercing. And a hand with some long nails covered in turquoise nail polish holding open the labia to give a full view.

  Sara didn’t know what to think.

  She scrolled up. It wasn’t the first picture of a pussy Martin had received. There were five from the same number over the last few weeks.

  Sara googled the mobile number. It wasn’t in the phone book, but it turned up on a website for ‘Nikki X – Luxury Escort’.

  Sara looked at her husband and then back at the pictures of the pussy again. And then back to Martin.

  An escort.

  Her head felt entirely empty. She tried to think, but she got completely stuck.

  She carefully put down the mobile on the coffee table. Then she picked up Martin’s beloved guitar and struck it against the table so that it smashed.

  Her husband leaped up, but Sara was already in the hallway, keys in hand.

  Martin.

  With a prostitute.

  With a whore.

  Sara never used that word about the girls she met while working.

  But Nikki X was a whore.

  A real fucking whore.

  This was all Martin’s fault. He was the one who was married with kids. He was the one paying a girl for sexual services.

  But Nikki X was still a whore.

  Sara felt stupid. So horribly stupid.

  Easily deceived, dumb, stupid.

  Conceited, righteous Sara Nowak, who condemned all the men who paid for sex, and pitied their wives and families, but who deep down felt that it was their own fault. The wives had picked the wrong men to share their lives with. Sara had always known that she would prefer to live alone than to be married to a man who would even contemplate paying for sex.

  Now she realised it wasn’t about morals – it was about self-delusion.

  Sara ran outside into Kornhamnstorg.

  She had no idea where she was going.

  To work?

  Should she call David? Was he willing to listen to her without judging her? Without making Sara feel like she’d lost? Jane was out of the question.

  Where should she go? She didn’t want to wander around amid strangers – whether they were pissed or happily in love.

  She wanted to be left in peace. There was a hotel on Lilla Nygatan. Good. She needed to go somewhere.

  Sara turned the corner into Lilla Nygatan. She checked in her pocket to make sure she’d brought her wallet with her, so that she could pay for a room. She was also afraid she would smash it to pieces.

  ‘Get lost!’

  Sara recognised Ebba’s voice right away. It was coming from the square behind her, and she turned around and hurried back. When she emerged back into Kornhamnstorg again, she caught sight of her daughter. She’d just come out of the underground station and had two burly lads following her.

  ‘Whore, whore, whore!’ one of them taunted her, clapping his hands like a grotesque, solitary cheerleader.

  ‘Hold up, stop!’ the other one shouted.

  ‘Get lost!’ Ebba shouted again.

  Then the cheerleader guy caught up with her and grabbed her hair.

  ‘Fucking cocktease! Come here!’

  A second later, he landed on his back, screaming with pain. Sara had flown at him with her arm bent, crouched and inserted it between his legs before standing up. She’d lifted him up at the same time as she tipped him forward. It was a krav maga move she’d never tested outside the practice room before, but it seemed to work well. The man cried out as he lost control of his body, flying through the air and hitting the ground hard.

  She couldn’t resist kicking him in the stomach while he was lying there, so that he wouldn’t be tempted to fight back. Before the other lad had time to realise what was happening, Sara grabbed him by the collar and shoved a knee into his solar plexus. She pushed her hip forward as much as she could to give it extra force, and he crumpled at her feet.

  ‘Don’t you fucking dare harass girls like that!’ Sara shouted, her face just millimetres from the closest of the two lads.

  ‘Mum!’ said Ebba. ‘What are you doing? Why are you here? Are you following me?’

  ‘No, I came from over there,’ said Sara, waving towards Lilla Nygatan. ‘I heard you cry out.’

  ‘But you can’t knock people to the ground!’

  ‘Would you have preferred it if they’d attacked you? You’ve no idea what scum like this are capable of – how much shit I’ve seen.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you change jobs if it’s so awful? That way you won’t have to assault people! You clearly can’t handle it!’

  Ebba stormed off. Homewards, Sara noted with relief. And this time she was pretty certain that her daughter’s anger towards her had been exacerbated by the shock of being ambushed. It was just as Sara had suspected – Ebba hadn’t fully realised how vulnerable she was as a young girl.

  She turned back to the two guys on the ground. The one she’d thrown to the floor was at least sitting up, and the other one had got to his feet, although he was still clutching his stomach. The one on the ground was bleeding from his forehead and nose.

  ‘I was protecting my child,’ said Sara. ‘You were behaving like bastards. But if you want to report it, then I’ll help you.’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’

  ‘I’m bleeding.’

  ‘Let’s sort that out,’ said his friend. ‘They have plasters at 7-Eleven.’

  ‘OK,’ said Sara, making her way back home. She had to go back. It felt like the whole world was caving in and that it was up to her to try and stop it.

  First there had been Stellan’s murder, and now Olle was watching porn, Martin was cheating on her and two young guys had harassed her daughter.

  What the hell was going on?

  The moment she opened the door to the apartment, Ebba came out of the bathroom and went into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’

  Martin came out of the living room with what remained of the guitar in his hand. He looked completely devastated, but Sara found it difficult to feel any sympathy towards him.

  ‘Ask Nikki X.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The one sending you photos of her pussy.’

  He reacted to those words.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I thought it was Ebba messaging, so I checked your phone and instead I got a close-up gynaecological exam. And it wasn’t the first, either.’

  No reply from Martin.

  ‘How long has this been going on? Where did you meet her? And how the hell can you pay for sex when you know what I see day in, day out?’

  ‘Stop it! I haven’t paid for sex. I haven’t had sex with anyone else since we got together.’

  ‘That’s not what the pictures say. Even if you haven’t put it in there, you’ve clearly had phone sex.’

  ‘No, we haven’t. It’s a girl who’s trying to get a contract with Go Live and thinks that’s what she should be doing.’

  ‘Contract? She’s an escort!’

  ‘That’s entirely possible. But she’s also a singer a
nd records her own tracks.’

  ‘And she sends photos of her genitals to secure a contract with your company?’

  ‘Yes – I suppose she thinks that how it’s done.’

  ‘And where did she get that idea?’

  ‘From her experiences of men, I don’t suppose it’s surprising if she’s got the impression that all men think with their dicks.’

  ‘You do.’

  ‘I’ve never encouraged her. You can see for yourself. I’ve never answered.’

  Martin held the mobile up facing Sara and scrolled upwards. There were only incoming messages from Nikki X – none to her.

  ‘So you’re just an innocent victim receiving photos against your will?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why the hell are you saving them, then? No, there’s no need to say anything – I understand.’

  ‘No, I’ll say something, because you’re fabricating your own reality. I’ve saved the photos in case she goes off the rails and ends up being dangerous and I have to report her to the police. If that happens, I want evidence of the stalking.’

  ‘And why haven’t you discussed this with your wife? Your wife who is a police officer.’

  ‘Because you would react just like this and think that I liked it.’

  ‘But then I would listen to you, just like I’m doing now.’

  ‘Show that you’re listening and you believe me.’

  ‘Show me your phone.’

  Martin handed over his mobile. There were no calls to or from the number anywhere in the call history. And the messages had only come from her.

  Sara chose to believe him, but remained sceptical about the decision to keep the photos. Martin was acquitted – at least for the moment.

  ‘I loved this,’ said her husband, holding up the remains of his guitar.

  A crushed Martin and a crushed Martin.

  28

  It was really the middle of the night, but dawn had already begun to illuminate the flat. Agneta had hoped to surprise him, and had been prepared for strong resistance.

  But all she had encountered was an abandoned home.

  He had lived here.

  Ober.

  Above a branch of the state-owned off-licence sandwiched between a petrol station and a Thai restaurant, in an unassuming one-bed flat. With fine views towards the water.

  Out there on the water was where the small yellow car ferries ran their constant shuttle between Vaxholm and the surrounding islands. Right now all was calm. The sea was tranquil, but Agneta assumed that the waves rolled forcefully into the harbour during autumn storms.

  This place was in the archipelago, even though it was on the mainland. She could really see why people wanted to live here. In the past, she’d merely considered Vaxholm to be a long way out of town. They had views of the water back home in Bromma, too. But this place had a different feeling to it – a different sense of calm.

  Agneta had been prepared to climb up onto the balcony and get in that way, but the lock on the door had turned out to be easy to prise open. Holding the pistol in one hand, she’d slowly opened the door. Ready for an attack.

  But nothing had happened.

  And when she went inside, she encountered echoing silence. Given the unfortunate spread of news about Stellan’s death, Ober had probably fled and hidden at a secure address. The alternative was that he had gone to meet Abu Rasil, and that everything was already underway.

  Agneta hoped that wasn’t the case.

  Now she was standing here, feeling astonished by how commonplace daily life as a spy could be. She went through the fridge and larder. Yoghurt and coffee cream. Goat’s cheese. Lots of cereal and muesli.

  Then the bathroom. Medication for stomach ulcers and denture cleaning fluid in the bathroom cabinet. A bath towel with Sunwing package holiday branding and the date 1991, and a small red towel hanging on a hook beneath a sticker with the word ‘bottom’ written on it. In the bedroom there was a neatly made bed with a burgundy throw spread across it. Being a single bed, it indicated that all hope of one day sharing his existence with someone had evaporated.

  In the living room she found the remote controls for the TV and VCR lying on a crocheted white cloth spread across the coffee table. There was a two-seater sofa and an armchair in matching drab brown upholstery. He had allowed for guests in his plans, at least. There was a bookcase filled with crime fiction, biographies and books about animals and nature.

  Agneta searched the flat yet again for anything that might be linked to Geiger and the spy ring. There were no hidden compartments or hollows behind the tiling – or so it seemed. But Ober had left a box wrapped in a black bin liner beneath the floor of the cupboard under the kitchen sink, and inside that she found an aged radio transmitter. It was made of green metal and had knobs and dials on it.

  How long had he used this for?

  And why had he kept it?

  Was he still active after all these years, or had he just been hoping? Whatever the case, the transmitter was compromising evidence, so Agneta took it with her. Others might follow his trail.

  She had to find Ober before anyone else did.

  What exactly did Stellan’s death being public knowledge mean?

  What did they make of her own disappearance?

  And if they connected the murder with the spy ring, would they manage to find Ober – and would Ober talk?

  Or was Ober keeping out of the way because he was determined at all costs to complete the mission he’d once sworn he would – the devastation of the decadent West?

  29

  Sara woke up early, restless. The events of the day before had shaken her. In practice, everything had ended well, if she was to believe Martin. Ebba was home safe and sound, saved from potential assault. And new guitars could be bought.

  It wasn’t even six o’clock, but she couldn’t sleep, so she pulled on her workout clothes and headed out for a run. She was wearing Ebba’s old, abandoned three-quarter length trousers with Elsa from Frozen on them, and a T-shirt with a ‘CEO Speedwagon’ print on it. Even a hobby band needed merchandise. At this early hour, the only people up were other joggers, so Sara didn’t care what she was wearing.

  She ran a lap of the island of Kungsholmen, choosing to go anticlockwise for a change. Around an hour later, she stopped to sit down by the pier next to City Hall and stared out across the glittering water at the white boats that had their sights set on the islands of Mälaren, Mariefred and Strängnäs. She thought about Breuer and Strauss. And the blown-up road in Germany that they were so interested in.

  Was it connected to the murder of Stellan? If so, how?

  Who could know that? Was she in possession of information that someone could help her interpret? Stellan’s death was plausibly linked to his past.

  Who could help her when Brundin from the Security Service refused?

  There was only one person she could think of.

  Since she was wearing her running gear and was by City Hall, she simply jogged through the old town and past Slussen onto Södermalm. She felt her top getting soaked through with sweat again. When she spotted Hedin’s door, it occurred to her that the researcher might not be awake at this hour. When the time came for her to retire, Sara had no intention of ever getting up before eleven. The street was deserted, so no one reacted when she leaned her forehead against the window and stared through the pane of glass into Hedin’s flat.

  She was most certainly awake.

  Through the window of that room, Sarah could see her sitting in the kitchen and writing. The retired professor didn’t react when Sara tapped on the window, but she didn’t give up. She began knocking instead. Harder and harder until Hedin came over and opened it from inside.

  ‘I’m working,’ said Hedin, making a motion to close the window again, but Sara stopped her.

  ‘This is more important,’ she said.

  She grabbed hold of the window frame, jumped up and heaved herself in. She ended up on her belly on top of the win
dowsill before slithering down onto the floor. It wasn’t the most dignified of entrances. Then she got up and looked at Hedin.

  ‘The explosion in Germany—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What’s it got to do with Stellan?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Hedin turned around and went back to the kitchen.

  ‘You’ve heard about the explosion, right?’

  ‘No.’

  Hedin was staring down at an open book full of underlinings while her fingers tapped away at the keys. The text was in German. Lying around her were photocopies of various archival documents, and dozens of scraps from various bits of cardboard packaging – rice, oats, muesli – that had been cut up so that the blank sides could be used as index cards. The computer was easily ten years old, and the printer was a dot matrix model perched on the other table. Sara couldn’t help thinking how few expenses Hedin must have.

  ‘Hattenbach was the name of the place,’ Sara said. ‘The whole road is just a crater. Six dead, I think.’

  ‘Hattenbach?’

  Hedin pulled out an old atlas and leafed through it.

  ‘Fulda-Lücke,’ she said, before putting down the book. ‘The Fulda Gap. Fukuyama was very wrong.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Sara recognised the term – Fulda Gap – but couldn’t remember what it meant.

  ‘It was in the Fulda Gap that everyone thought the Third World War would start,’ said Hedin. ‘East of Frankfurt, on the border between East and West. There’s a couple of valleys there that are practically made for a tank-borne invasion. Corridors straight into the heart of West Germany, into the Rhine where the Americans’ key NATO bases were located. There have been a lot of books about it, movies, even a board game. Don’t they teach anything in schools these days?’

  Sara didn’t know whether Hedin was lumping her in with the school pupils of the day, but she chose to ignore the question.

  ‘Could it be connected to Stellan Broman?’ she said. ‘It happened right at the same time, and in both cases there are ties to the Cold War.’