The Rabbit Hunter. Ларс Кеплер

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      The guards lead Joona through security doors and airlocks. They have to show the warrant authorising the transfer several times. More locks whirr, and they head deeper into a section Joona isn’t familiar with. At the far end of the hallway two men are standing guard outside a door.

      Joona immediately recognises that they’re Security Police officers. Without looking at him they open the door.

      The dimly lit room is completely bare apart from two plastic chairs. Someone is sitting in one of them.

      Joona stops in the middle of the floor.

      The light from the low-hanging ceiling lamp doesn’t reach the man’s face. It stops at the pressed creases of his trousers and the black shoes, wet mud visible beneath their soles.

      Something is glinting in his right hand.

      When the door closes behind Joona the man stands up, takes a step forward into the light and tucks his reading glasses in his breast pocket.

      Only then does Joona see his face.

      It’s Sweden’s Prime Minister.

      His eyes are cast in darkness, and the shadow of his sharp nose lies like a stroke of black ink across his mouth.

      ‘This meeting has never taken place,’ the Prime Minister says in his characteristic hoarse voice. ‘I haven’t met you, and you haven’t met me. No matter what happens you’ll tell people you had a meeting with your defence lawyer.’

      ‘Your driver doesn’t smoke,’ Joona says.

      ‘No,’ he replies in surprise.

      The Prime Minister’s right hand moves aimlessly towards the knot of his tie before he continues.

      ‘Last night my government’s Foreign Minister was murdered in his home. The official story is that he died after a short illness, but we’re actually dealing with an act of terrorism.’

      The Prime Minister’s nose is shiny with sweat, and the bags under his eyes are dark. The leather bracelet carrying the emergency alarm slips down his wrist as he pulls the other plastic chair forward for Joona.

      ‘Joona Linna,’ he says. ‘I’m going to make you a highly unorthodox offer, an offer that is only valid here and now.’

      ‘I’m listening.’

      ‘An inmate from Hall Prison is going to be transferred and placed in your unit. His name is Salim Ratjen. He was convicted of drug offences, but found not guilty of murder … The evidence suggests that he occupies a central position in a terrorist organisation, and that he may even be directing whoever carried out the murder of the Foreign Minister.’

      ‘Background information?’

      ‘Here,’ the Prime Minister replies, handing over a thin folder.

      Joona sits down on the chair and takes the file with his cuffed hands. The plastic creaks as he leans back. As he reads he notices that the Prime Minister keeps checking his phone.

      Joona skims the report from the crime scene, the lab results and the interview with the female witness in which she says she heard the killer say that Ratjen had opened the door to hell. The report concludes with graphs of telecom traffic and Sheikh Ayad al-Jahiz’s command that western leaders should be tracked down and their faces blown off.

      ‘There are plenty of holes,’ Joona says, handing the folder back.

      ‘This is just a preliminary report. A lot of test results are still missing, and—’

      ‘Holes that were left on purpose,’ Joona interrupts.

      ‘I don’t know anything about that,’ the Prime Minister says, slipping his phone back in the inside pocket of his jacket.

      ‘Have there been any other victims?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Is there anything to suggest that more attacks are planned?’

      ‘I don’t think so.’

      ‘Why the Foreign Minister?’ Joona asks.

      ‘He was pushing for coordinated European action against terrorism.’

      ‘What do they achieve by killing him?’

      ‘This is a clear attack against the very heart of democracy,’ the Prime Minister goes on. ‘And I want the heads of these terrorists on a fucking plate, if you’ll pardon the expression. This is about justice, about putting our foot down. They cannot and will not frighten us. That’s why I’m here, to ask if you’re prepared to infiltrate Salim Ratjen’s organisation from inside prison.’

      ‘I assumed that. I appreciate your faith in me, but you have to understand that I’ve built up a life in here. It wasn’t easy, because people are aware of my background, but over time they’ve learned that they can trust me.’

      ‘We’re talking about national security here.’

      ‘I’m no longer a police officer.’

      ‘The Security Police will have your conviction quashed and you’ll get conditional parole if you do this.’

      ‘I’m not interested.’

      ‘That’s how she said you’d react,’ the Prime Minister says.

      ‘Saga Bauer?’

      ‘She said you wouldn’t listen to any offer from the Security Police … That’s why I decided to come in person.’

      ‘I’d be more inclined to consider the job if I didn’t think you were withholding vital information from me.’

      ‘What is there to conceal? The Security Police think you can help them identify Salim Ratjen’s contact on the outside.’

      ‘I’m sorry you wasted your time,’ Joona says, then gets to his feet and starts walking towards the door.

      ‘I can get you pardoned,’ the Prime Minister says to his back.

      ‘That would require government approval,’ Joona says, turning around.

      ‘I’m the Prime Minister.’

      ‘As long as I feel I’m not being given all available information, I’m going to have to say no,’ Joona repeats.

      ‘How can you claim to be unaware of what you don’t know?’ the Prime Minister asks, obviously irritated.

      ‘I know you’re sitting here even though you should be in Brussels for a meeting of the European Council,’ Joona says. ‘I know that you gave up smoking eight years ago, but now you’ve suffered a relapse, judging by the smell on your clothes and the mud on your shoes.’

      ‘Mud on my shoes?’

      ‘You’re a considerate man, and СКАЧАТЬ