do you think?’ Saga asks.
‘I don’t know,’ Sofia replies, and wipes tears from her cheeks.
Saga walks quickly towards the door. She hears Sofia calling after her.
The driver’s face is immobile as he glances in the rear-view mirror to check that the vehicle behind him is still following closely.
The sound of the engine runs through the Prime Minister’s custom-made Volvo like a comforting purr.
A year ago the Security Police decided that the Swedish Prime Minister needed an armoured, reinforced vehicle. It has twelve cylinders and 453 horsepower, and can do one hundred kilometres an hour in reverse. Its windows are designed to stop bullets from high-velocity weapons.
The Prime Minister is sitting on the spacious leather seat in the back of the car with the finger and thumb of his left hand gently massaging his closed eyelids. His dark-blue suit is unbuttoned, and his red tie hangs crookedly across the front of his shirt.
Saga sits beside him, still in her leather bodysuit. She hasn’t had time to change, and she’s hot. She feels like unzipping the bodysuit down to her waist, but doesn’t because she’s still naked underneath.
The head of the Security Police, Verner Sandén, sits in the front seat. His hand is curved over the back of the seat, and his long frame is twisted so that he can look at the Prime Minister while he briefs him on the situation.
He runs through the chronology in his deep voice, from the time the Code Platinum was declared, to the accelerated examination of the crime scene and the ongoing reports from the forensics team.
‘The house is back to its original state. There’s nothing to indicate what happened there last night,’ Verner concludes.
‘My thoughts are with the family,’ the Prime Minister says in a low voice, turning to look out of the window.
‘We’re keeping them out of this. Naturally, we’re maintaining the highest level of secrecy.’
‘You say the situation is dire?’ the Prime Minister asks as he replies to a text.
‘Yes, there are specific circumstances that led us to request an urgent meeting with you,’ Verner replies.
‘Well, as you know I’m travelling to Brussels this evening. I really don’t have time for this,’ the Prime Minister explains.
Saga can feel her butt cheeks sticking to her leather bodysuit.
‘We’re dealing with a professional or semi-professional killer who sticks within the framework of his brief,’ she says, trying to raise her butt a little.
‘The Security Police are always prone to grand conspiracy theories,’ the Prime Minister says, looking down at his phone again.
‘The killer used a semiautomatic pistol with a silencer that cools the percussive gas,’ she says. ‘He killed the Foreign Minister with one shot through his right eye. Then he picked up the empty shell, leaned over the dead body, put the pistol to the left eye, fired again, picked up the shell, then turned—’
‘What the hell?’ the Prime Minister says, looking up at her.
‘The killer didn’t trigger any of the alarms himself,’ Saga goes on. ‘But even though the alarms were blaring loudly enough to wake the entire neighbourhood, and even though the police were on their way, he stayed to dig the bullets out of the wall and wooden floor before leaving the villa. He knew where all the security cameras were, so there’s no footage of him anywhere … And I can tell you now that forensics aren’t going to find anything that could lead us any closer to him.’
She stops speaking and looks at the Prime Minister, who takes a swig of water, puts the heavy glass back down and wipes his mouth.
The car glides towards north Djurgården. To their left is the great grass expanse of Gärdet. In the seventeenth century the area was used for military exercises, but today the only people around are a few joggers and dog-walkers.
‘So it was an execution?’ he asks in a hoarse voice.
‘Yes. We don’t know why yet, but it could be blackmail. The killer could have been trying to get classified information,’ Verner explains. ‘The Foreign Minister could have been forced to make some sort of statement on film.’
‘That doesn’t sound good,’ the Prime Minister whispers.
‘No. We’re convinced this is an act of political terrorism, even though no one has claimed responsibility overnight,’ Verner replies.
‘Terrorism?’
‘There was a prostitute in the Foreign Minister’s home,’ Saga says.
‘He has his problems,’ the Prime Minister says, wrinkling his long nose slightly.
‘Yes, but—’
‘Drop it,’ he interrupts.
Saga glances at the Prime Minister. There’s a distant look in his eyes, and he’s clenching his jaw. She wonders if he’s trying to come to terms with what’s happened. His government’s Foreign Minister has been murdered. Maybe he’s thinking back to the last time that happened.
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.
The Prime Minister’s Volvo rolls across Djurgårdsbrunn’s 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 he’s serving a long prison sentence for narcotics offences,’ Saga explains, leaning forward to free her damp back from her leather bodysuit.
‘We
