Hunter. Ларс Кеплер
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seventh.’
‘Dear God,’ the Prime Minister mutters.
‘We have four days,’ Verner says.
Branches brush the roof of the car as they turn abruptly and start to head back towards the Kaknäs Tower.
‘Why the hell weren’t you keeping this Ratjen under closer surveillance?’ the Prime Minister asks, pulling a paper napkin from the box in the car door.
‘He has no previous connections to any terrorist networks,’ Verner replies.
‘So he was radicalised in prison,’ the Prime Minister says, wiping his neck.
‘That’s what we believe.’
The rain is getting heavier and the driver turns on the windshield-wipers. The blades sweep the tiny droplets from the glass.
‘And you think that I might be … one of these celebrations?’
‘We have to consider that possibility,’ Saga replies.
‘So you’re sitting here telling me that someone might murder me on Wednesday,’ the Prime Minister says, unable to conceal his agitation.
‘We need to get Ratjen to talk … we need to know what his plans are before it’s too late,’ Verner replies.
‘So what the hell are you waiting for?’
‘We don’t believe Salim Ratjen can be questioned in a conventional way,’ Saga tries to explain. ‘He didn’t respond when he was questioned five years ago, and didn’t say a single word during his trial.’
‘You have ways and means – don’t you?’
‘Breaking someone down can take many months,’ she replies.
‘I have a fairly important job,’ the Prime Minister says as he scrunches up the napkin. ‘I’m married, I have two children, and …’
‘We’re very sorry about this,’ Verner says.
‘This is the first time you’ve really been needed – so don’t tell me there’s nothing you can do.’
‘Ask me what we should do,’ Saga says.
The Prime Minister looks at her in surprise, then loosens his tie slightly.
‘What should we do?’ he repeats.
‘Tell the driver to stop the car and get out.’
They’ve reached Loudden, and the gloomy oil depot. The long spine of the pier is almost invisible in the grey rain.
Although the Prime Minister still looks uncertain, he leans forward and talks to the driver.
It’s raining harder, a chill rain that splashes the puddles. The Security Police driver stops right in front of one of the oil tanks.
The driver gets out and stands a couple of metres from the car. The rain darkens his pale beige uniform jacket in a matter of seconds.
‘So what should we do?’ the Prime Minister asks once more, looking at Saga.
Work is over for the day in Unit T of the high-security prison at Kumla, and fifteen inmates are jostling for space in the cramped gym.
No kettlebells, dumbbells, bars or any other equipment that could be used as a weapon is permitted.
The inmates move aside when Reiner Kronlid and his bodyguards from the Brotherhood come in. Reiner’s power is based on the fact that he controls the flow of all narcotics in the unit, and he guards his position like a jealous god.
Without him saying a word, a skinny man gets off his exercise bike and quickly wipes the saddle and handlebars with paper towels.
The static fluorescent strip-lights reveal the shabby walls. The air is heavy with the smell of sweat and tiger balm.
As usual, the group of old junkies is standing outside the dividing Plexiglas wall, and two Albanians from the Malmö gang are loitering by the folded table-tennis table.
Joona Linna finishes a set of pull-ups, lets go of the bar and lands softly on the floor. He looks over at the window. Dusty sunlight fills the gym again. His grey eyes look like molten lead for a few seconds.
Joona is clean-shaven, and his blond hair is cut short, almost in a crew-cut. His brow is furrowed, his mouth set firm. He’s wearing a pale blue T-shirt, its seams stretching over his bulging muscles.
‘One more set before we switch to a wider grip,’ Marko says to him.
Marko is a wiry older prisoner who has taken it upon himself to act as Joona’s bodyguard.
A new inmate with a thin, birdlike face is approaching the gym. He’s hiding something against his hip. His cheekbones are sharp, his lips pale, and his thinning hair is pulled up in a ponytail.
He isn’t dressed for the gym. He’s wearing an open rust-red fleece jacket that reveals the tattoos on his chest and neck.
The thin man passes beneath the last security camera mounted in the ceiling and enters the gym, then stops in front of Joona.
One of the prison guards outside the Plexiglas turns, and the baton hanging by his hip swings against the glass.
A few of the inmates have turned their backs on Joona and Marko.
The atmosphere becomes tense, everyone moves with a new wariness.
The only sound is a high-frequency hum from the ventilation.
Joona stands underneath the pull-up bar again, jumps, and pulls himself up.
Marko stands behind him with his sinuous tattooed arms hanging by his sides.
The veins in Joona’s temples throb as he pulls himself up again and again, raising his chin above the bar.
‘Are you the cop?’ the man with the thin face asks.
Small motes of dust drift gently through the still air. The guard on the other side of the Plexiglas exchanges a few words with an inmate, then starts to walk back towards the control room.
Joona pulls himself up again.
‘Thirty more,’ Marko says.
The man with the thin face is staring at Joona. Sweat glistens on his top lip, and is dripping down his cheeks.
‘I’m going to get you, you bastard,’ he says with a strained smile.
‘Nyt pelkään,’ Joona replies calmly in Finnish, and pulls himself up again.
‘Understand?’ the man grins. ‘Do you understand what the fuck I’m saying?’
Joona notices that the new arrival is clutching a dagger by his hip, a homemade weapon made from a long, thin shard of glass bound with duct-tape.
He’ll aim low, Joona thinks. He’ll try to get below my ribs. It’s almost impossible to stab someone with glass, but if it’s held by splints under the tape it can still penetrate the body before it snaps off.
A few other inmates have gathered on the other side of the Plexiglas, looking into the gym with curiosity. Their body language betrays a restrained eagerness. They just happen to stand in the way of the cameras.
‘You’re a cop,’ the man hisses, then looks at the others. ‘You know he’s a cop?’
‘Is that true?’ one of the onlookers says with a smile, then takes a swig from a plastic bottle.
A crucifix swings on a chain around the neck of a man with haggard features. The scars on the insides of his arms are frayed from the ascorbic acid he’s used to dissolve the heroin.
‘It