Grip looked puzzled. “The Jew?”
“That’s a Somali speaking on the tape, right?”
“Yes.”
“The Somali is saying that you need to find the Jew.” The translator was quiet for a few seconds and then said thoughtfully: “He seems scared to death.”
“I believe he was. Thanks.”
“What is …?”
“The larger context? Today’s Expressen and Aftonbladet are probably out by now.” Grip was already heading from the room. “But, please, let’s just forget about this.”
The Jew. Something was going on with those Somalis, Grip didn’t doubt it for a moment. But this wasn’t about blowing up the Parliament or destroying subway stations. Naturally, that “Jew” was somebody, but it was only too easy to imagine what would happen if he reported the detail. His coworkers from the day before, and probably a couple of directors above them, needed vindication after their wholesale failure in the apartment in Husby. They’d put their heads together, dreaming of revenge, and Grip would bet a month’s salary that they’d find another opportunity to use the battering ram.
That’s how it was when you were hunting terrorists. You’d get the smallest scrap of evidence—and then you’d go ballistic. There would be more shattered doors in immigrant neighborhoods, more screams, more kicks in the gut, and more people with bloody noses. And maybe they’d finally find something real, or maybe they’d only find a few more boxes of mobile phones and SIM cards, which is to say—nothing. Sure, Grip could live with that. But at worst, when everything had gone wrong and they needed someone to blame, the stink could blow back in his face. With the right mix of insider tips, angry Muslim representatives, and prosecutors smelling blood, he himself could be held accountable in a courtroom, because he hadn’t intervened before the splashing and screaming in the bathroom began. A goddamn little Nuremberg trial, you taking the stand to say you’d followed an illegal order. He’d end up as the face of the Waterboarding Association in Sweden. And the others would leave him holding the bag. They’d waste no time in closing ranks, shutting out the one who came along as an extra, the one no one really knew but that they’d heard stories about. They’d dig up all the old shit.
Why did they think he’d bear the cross for his coworkers? Just for a good cause?
Already on Sunday night, he’d told them that no one had said anything in the bedroom. Now he knew more, but it wasn’t worth the risk. And besides, who in ISIS, Al-Qaeda, or any of their supporting ranks and Koran-obsessed affiliates would be crazy enough to be called the Jew? No one. So Grip dropped the whole thing, erased the recording, lied again after the debriefing in the afternoon, shrugged his shoulders, and went on. No more bathrooms, that had crossed a line. At least, not with Ernst Grip as both witness and hostage.
Grip was back in his usual hallway, trying once again to go home for the day, when an assistant yelled as he passed by.
“Yes?”
“Someone named Thor is looking for you. He said it was important.”
“Thor?”
“I’m sorry, but that’s all I wrote down. He seemed to think you’d know.” The assistant was new.
“Could it have been Didricksen, Thor Didricksen?”
“Sounds right.”
Grip had never heard anyone refer to Didricksen as just Thor. Didricksen belonged to the top ranks of the security police, but, lacking clear responsibilities, he had the title At large. That is, he’d take on what none of the other directors wanted on their desk, the unpleasant emergencies. Usually matters from outside, and usually things that people with careers and political ambitions feared would make a stink. For items requiring special care, it was good to have someone experienced with the dirty side of things. It was said that he participated in very few regular management meetings. He acted through other channels, something of a detested court dwarf, who sat and whispered, glaring by the prince’s side.
Besides, “old” Thor Didricksen’s age was hard to gauge. He’d seemed to be on the verge of retiring for at least a decade. It was assumed that he was waiting for a scandal of the right magnitude, and then Didricksen would take himself and all his dirty laundry with him. Only for all these years, he’d somehow managed to keep himself and those he protected out of trouble.
Most people even avoided calling him Didricksen. When he called to find someone in the various departments, the person who picked up would say something about “the man upstairs” or “the dog on six,” with a gesture of resignation, and then you knew who you needed to see. Immediately. Also, Didricksen always made the messengers imply that people should know what the meeting was about, when in fact they hadn’t the slightest idea. The contradiction lay in the fact that in Didricksen’s world, very few knew much of anything. During the short periods that people worked directly for him, he was called simply the Boss.
In the circle of ambitious middle-aged types at Säpo, the ones always looking to move up a notch, they often spoke in low tones about violations and breaches that bore Didricksen’s stamp. Mostly, it was about jealousy. The Boss had no regular staff, but from time to time, he took what he needed. You couldn’t go to him; he did the choosing. Too many considered themselves next in the pipeline, or, in any case, thought they’d done it—gotten “on the list.” Grip and Didricksen went way back. Perhaps that was what made people uncomfortable, when they found themselves alone with Grip at the coffee machine.
“Should I call to say you’re coming?” asked the assistant.
“Don’t bother, I think he’s expecting me,” said Grip, and walked toward the stairs.
The dog on six. Something about his hanging cheeks. The floor of his office was covered by an oriental carpet from Afghanistan. “From before the war,” he’d point out, “even before the Russians.” A souvenir from a trip in the seventies. The carpet—deep red with black geometric designs—made visitors move cautiously and made the room strangely quiet.
“Did you read the paper today?” asked Didricksen, when Grip closed the door behind him.
Grip hesitated for a second. “You mean the apartment in Husby?”
“No, no, I don’t care about that. And not the tabloids, but this morning’s Svenska Dagbladet.”
At best, Grip skimmed the Dagens Nyheter online for breakfast. What could Didricksen be interested in, beyond the result of yesterday’s soccer derby at the Tele2 Arena, or the fan brawl in the subway afterward?
“About the soldier who got killed,” Grip began. “Can’t say I read the whole article.” In fact, he hadn’t read anything at all, but only briefly glanced at the morning news on TV. Grip felt the Afghan carpet sag beneath him. “Did the Taliban blow someone up again?”
“A soldier, yes,” replied Didricksen, “but you’re on the wrong continent. It was at a shooting range in Djibouti.”
“Aha.” Didricksen hadn’t offered Grip a seat. With anyone else, he’d just sit down in the first chair he saw, but their clear division was one of few hierarchies he conformed to.
“Just to be sure, I got out a map.” Beside Didricksen lay an open atlas, and he spun it
