‘If the Swedes don’t get the fact that we’re going to sort this out together, we’ll just walk all over them,’ the director of the FBI had said when he got a call at four o’clock in the morning US time, and was given the news.
He had then put Bruce’s boss in charge of dealing with the hijacked plane, and the boss in turn had handed operational responsibility to Bruce.
It was now five o’clock in the morning, and Bruce was on his second cup of coffee. The FBI worked around the clock, but there weren’t many people in the office yet. He had already been in touch with his counterpart in the CIA, and had also spoken to several different departments that were involved. It would be a few hours before everyone was in, but once they were, it would be all-out war. At the moment, it looked as if the FBI would carry the main responsibility, but as the plane wasn’t yet in American airspace, it could be argued that this was an external threat approaching the borders of the USA, and should therefore fall within the remit of the defence service.
Bruce wasn’t interested in arguments of that kind. If everyone just stuck to their own job and did what they were best at, their joint operations were usually successful.
He wasn’t particularly impressed with the information he had received from Sweden. He hadn’t seen a list of passengers or crew members. Nor had he been given any details about the Swedes’ assessment of how likely it was that there might be a bomb in the baggage hold or in the cabin itself.
Bruce was far from convinced that there really was a bomb; however, he was certain that the hijackers were serious. The reason for this was that Tennyson Cottage had been mentioned.
Tennyson Cottage was one of the CIA’s facilities, and not something with which the FBI would concern itself under any circumstances, but that didn’t mean Bruce didn’t know about the place and its brief history. Guantánamo had become too controversial, too complicated, and by this stage, Bruce knew hardly anyone who didn’t want to shut down the goddamn place and forget it ever existed. But that wasn’t the way things worked, and everyone knew it. One person who had become particularly conscious of the problem was the President, who had made it an election issue in 2008. You had to wonder what kind of advisers the guy must have had; a high-school student could have worked out that trying to shut down Guantánamo was going to be hell.
But why would a place like Tennyson Cottage turn up in a bomb threat written in Swedish, which also gave the name of a person that the Swedish Security Service believed was involved in terrorism? Bruce was very dubious about the whole thing, to say the least. Tennyson Cottage wasn’t like Guantánamo; it wasn’t well known and it wasn’t talked about. He believed the name had leaked out in some context, and that it was possible to find it on the Internet, but you had to know what you were looking for.
Therefore, the fact that the hijackers had mentioned Tennyson Cottage said something about them. The only question was what that might be. Had Swedish citizens ever been held there? Bruce didn’t think so, but he would have to check with the CIA. He knew that Säpo had been in touch with the CIA, and that it was therefore entirely possible that Säpo knew more than the FBI right now, but if that was the case, things had to change.
Bruce had made a note of the person he had spoken to: Eden Lundell. Her English was so good that Bruce had felt compelled to ask if she originally came from an English-speaking country. It transpired that her mother was British, and that Eden had lived in London for many years.
There was something familiar about both Eden’s name and her half-British background but, for the life of him, Bruce couldn’t remember where he had come across her before. Eventually, he went to see a colleague who might be able to help.
‘Eden Lundell, used to live in England. Have we worked with her? Why does her name sound so familiar?’
His colleague grinned. ‘We certainly do know who she is,’ he said.
And Bruce suddenly remembered the story they had heard from the Brits a few years ago. How the hell had she managed to become the boss of the Swedish counter-terrorism operation? Didn’t the Swedes realise what a risk she constituted?
Tennyson Cottage. That was what Bruce had to focus on, not how Säpo recruited its personnel. How could the hijacker or hijackers possibly know about Tennyson Cottage? And why was it important to them that Tennyson Cottage of all places should be shut down?
If they could find the answers to those questions, they would soon be on the trail of whoever was behind the hijacking.
16 STOCKHOLM, 11:22
They met in Säpo’s HQ once again. This time, Alex Recht got to see more of the counter-terrorism unit. If he hadn’t known, he would never have guessed that he was just a stone’s throw from his own office. A huge number of internal walls had been knocked down to create vast open-plan offices, with tall screens marking out the different workstations. The windows were just as depressingly small as in the building where the National Bureau of Investigation operated, but the ceiling height had been raised and the walls were painted white. The floor was newly laid, and the computers were much more up to date than the ones Alex was used to. Most of the staff seemed to have at least two monitors on their desks; some had three. Several glass cubes dotted around the office served as modern meeting rooms, combining the maximum amount of light with maximum soundproofing. In some of the cubes, huge screens displayed maps, pictures of a range of individuals, and detailed summaries of information.
‘Impressive,’ Alex said.
‘Thanks; our analysts are responsible for those rooms, which also serve as our operational offices. It’s important that we have all the information to hand when we’re discussing a particular issue. The screens have been invaluable in that respect.’
‘I can well believe it,’ Alex said, mainly for the sake of having something to say.
Säpo looked like a film set for an American crime thriller, which wasn’t quite what he had been expecting. He was also surprised by the dress code; all the men were wearing dark suits, and so were most of the women. Those who weren’t in trouser suits wore a skirt suit or a dress. Alex felt out of place in his dark trousers and sports jacket.
As Eden led the way through the open-plan office, they passed a man who was on the phone, speaking loudly in French.
‘You don’t use interpreters here?’ Alex asked.
‘On certain occasions, but as a rule we expect our staff to speak at least one language in addition to Swedish and English. Many are fluent in four or five.’
She smiled at Alex. ‘How many languages do you speak?’
‘One. Two if you count English, but I’m not that good.’
‘In that case, perhaps it’s just as well that you were assigned to this particular job so that you can get some practice,’ Eden said. ‘Coffee?’
The coffee machine looked like a spaceship.
‘No thanks,’ Alex said, not wanting to reveal that he was a technophobe as well as a poor linguist.
But Eden saw through him and handed him a cup anyway.
‘Press here and here, et voilà!’
He peered into the cup.
‘Amazing,’ he said.
‘We live and learn,’ Eden replied. ‘This way.’
One of the smaller, more discreet glass cubes turned out to be Eden’s office. She closed the door behind them.
‘As I understand it, you’re sharing responsibility for this case with a colleague,’ Eden said.
‘Yes, but he’s gone to another meeting,’ Alex said. ‘With the Criminal Intelligence Service. We decided I would come and see you.’
Alex had no idea what the purpose of the other meeting might be, and was glad that he was seeing Eden instead.
‘Excuse me for asking, but is there a reason why there are two of you in charge now? Because you had sole responsibility to begin with, didn’t you?’