On a grey autumn day in 2003, then Foreign Minister Anna Lindh was out shopping with a friend when she was attacked by a man who stabbed her in the arms and chest.
The Foreign Minister had no bodyguard with her, no personal protection. She was badly wounded and died in the operating room.
Sweden was different back then. It was a country where politicians still believed they had the right to proclaim socialist ideals of international decency.
The woman who was being used by the Foreign Minister, Saga goes on, looking the Prime Minister in the eye. She heard a fragment of conversation which leads us to believe that this is the first in a number of planned murders.
Murders? What sort of damn murders? the Prime Minister asks, raising his voice.
13
The Prime Ministers Volvo rolls across Djurgårdsbrunns narrow stone bridge, then turns left alongside the canal. The grit on the road crunches beneath the tyres. Two ducks wade into the water and swim away from the shore.
The killer mentioned Ratjen as some sort of key figure, Verner says.
Ratjen? the Prime Minister repeats questioningly.
We believe we might have identified him. His name is Salim Ratjen, and hes serving a long prison sentence for narcotics offences, Saga explains, leaning forward to free her damp back from her leather bodysuit.
We see strong links between last nights events and a Sheikh Ayad al-Jahiz, who leads a terrorist group in Syria, Verner adds.
These are the only images we have of Ayad al-Jahiz, Saga says, holding up her phone.
A short film clip shows a man with a pleasant, mature face. He has a grey-flecked beard and glasses. He is looking into the camera as he speaks. It sounds like hes addressing a group of attentive schoolchildren.
He has drops of blood on his glasses, the Prime Minister whispers.
Sheikh Ayad al-Jahiz concludes his short speech and throws his arms out in a benevolent gesture.
What was he saying?
He said... We have dragged unbelievers behind trucks and troop carriers until the ropes came loose... Our task now is to find the leaders who support the bombing and shoot them until their faces are gone, Saga replies.
The Prime Ministers hand is shaking as he wipes his mouth.
They drive across another bridge and up towards the marina.
The security service at Hall Prison recorded a call that Salim Ratjen made to an unregistered mobile phone, Verner says. They discuss three big celebrations in Arabic. The first party coincides with the date the Foreign Minister was killed... the second is supposed to take place on Wednesday, and the third on October 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 werent 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.
Thats 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 youre 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 its too late, Verner replies.
So what the hell are you waiting for?
We dont believe Salim Ratjen can be questioned in a conventional way, Saga tries to explain. He didnt respond when he was questioned five years ago, and didnt say a single word during his trial.
You have ways and means dont 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. Im married, I have two children, and...
Were very sorry about this, Verner says.
This is the first time youve really been needed so dont tell me theres 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.
Theyve 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.
Its 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.
14
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. Reiners 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. Hes 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 Joonas bodyguard.
A new inmate with a thin, birdlike face is approaching the gym. Hes hiding something against his hip. His cheekbones are sharp, his lips pale, and his thinning hair is pulled up in a ponytail.
He isnt dressed for the gym. Hes 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 Joonas 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.
Im 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 Im 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.
Hell aim low, Joona thinks. Hell try to get below my ribs. Its almost impossible to stab someone with glass, but if its 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.
Youre a cop, the man hisses, then looks at the others. You know hes 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 hes used to dissolve the heroin.
It is, I fucking swear, the prisoner with the thin face goes on. Hes from National Crime, hes a fucking pig, a dirty cop.
That probably explains why everyone calls him the Cop, the man with the plastic bottle says sarcastically, and chuckles silently to himself.
Joona keeps doing pull-ups.
Reiner Kronlid is sitting on the exercise bike with a blank look on his face. His eyes are perfectly still, like a reptiles, as he watches the scene play out.
One of the men from Malmö comes in and starts to run on the treadmill. The thud of his feet and the whine of the belt fill the cramped room.
Joona lets go of the bar, lands softly on his feet and looks at the man with the weapon.
Can I give you something to think about? Joona says in his Finnish-accented Swedish. Feigned ignorance is born of confidence, illusory weakness is born of
What the fuck are you talking about? the man interrupts.
After his time in the Paratroop Unit Joona received enhanced training in unconventional close combat and innovative weaponry in the Netherlands.
Lieutenant Rinus Advocaat trained him for situations very similar to this. Joona knows exactly how to deflect the mans arm, how to crush his throat and windpipe with repeated blows, how to twist the glass knife from his grasp, how to jam it into his neck and break off its point.