‘We don’t know,’ she said, turning away from Alex.
‘Should I be worried?’
‘What? No, no. Mikael, this is really nothing to worry about.’
‘Are you sure? I’ve been watching the news. It’s crazy out there.’
Eden didn’t know what he was talking about. She told him she had to go, and ended the call.
‘My husband,’ she said briefly to Alex, who hadn’t asked who the call was from.
‘Is he a police officer too?’
‘A priest.’
Alex looked as if he was about to burst out laughing, but he managed to control himself.
‘I know,’ Eden said. ‘I don’t look like someone who’s married to a priest.’
She tugged at her wet hair, trying to make it lie down. A uniformed officer came over to them.
‘There are huge numbers of people out on the streets.’
So that was what Mikael had meant.
‘Doing what?’
‘Well, there are all the people we’ve turned out of the various locations, plus the rubberneckers who’ve come to see what’s going on.’
Eden could feel her frustration growing. Four bomb threats, plus the evacuation of parliament just to be on the safe side. One word passed through her mind: idiotic. This was an idiotic exercise.
‘This is nothing,’ she said firmly to Alex. ‘It’s a bluff. The bomb threats, parliament, the whole thing. This is just someone who wants to wind us up. Cause havoc. And take a look around. It’s hard to say that he or she hasn’t succeeded.’
Alex scratched his head.
‘It’s too soon to be sure that it’s just a bluff. We need to hold our nerve.’
Eden looked at her watch.
‘It’s gone five o’clock, and evidently no bomb has gone off so far. Nothing is going to happen at five fifteen or five thirty either,’ she said.
‘Let’s wait and see,’ Alex replied.
If Eden was right, Stockholm would still be intact when the hands on the clock had passed five forty-five.
8 19:10
The crisis came and went. By six o’clock, no bombs had gone off, and as far as parliament was concerned, Säpo were continuing to search the building, but didn’t expect to find anything. The Speaker announced that the debate on immigration and integration would take place as planned the following morning.
The Central Station and Åhlén’s department store opened their doors to the public just after seven and, at about the same time, it was decided that employees at the Royal Library and Rosenbad could return to their offices if they needed to make up the working hours they had lost.
Fredrika Bergman stayed on in the Foreign Office building on Fredsgatan after the end of the working day; she didn’t want to go home until the issue of the bomb threats was resolved.
Then suddenly the danger was past. The story of the mysterious bomb threats lived on in news bulletins all over the country, but nowhere else. Fredrika picked up her jacket and bag and went home.
That night she lay awake in the darkened bedroom, gazing at Spencer.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked without lifting his head from the pillow.
‘Nothing. I’m just happy to see you.’
She sensed a smile on his face.
‘Aha.’
Was he looking older these days? She edged closer. Sometimes she thought she could see new lines and wrinkles on his face every day, and that made her panic. She didn’t want Spencer to age any more quickly than he had done over the past few years. He was twenty-five years older than her; she couldn’t bear it if the gap grew any wider.
She caressed his forehead, saw him close his eyes. He would fall asleep at any moment, as he always did when they had made love even though it was very late. There had been a time in their lives when their relationship couldn’t be exposed to the light of day; they had been able to meet only in the evenings and at night. In those days it was never too late for sex, and they were never too tired.
But now…
After two children and a period of turbulence caused by Spencer’s separation from his wife, plus the chaos that followed when he was falsely accused of raping a student, things were very different. Most of the time they were both perfectly happy sitting side by side on the sofa and falling asleep in front of some mindless TV programme.
It was hard to admit it but, unfortunately, Spencer wasn’t the only one who had aged. For example, Fredrika couldn’t remember the last time she had been really drunk. Was it at a deadly boring reception that one of Spencer’s colleagues had given in New York? She couldn’t remember.
‘What are you thinking about?’ Spencer asked.
‘The last time I was drunk.’
He opened his eyes. ‘Okay…’
‘Have we got old and boring?’
‘I don’t think we’ll ever be boring, but I’m afraid we’re never going to be younger either.’
Fredrika burst out laughing.
‘You’re a wise man, Spencer.’
‘Indeed I am.’
He reached out and pulled her close, hugging her tightly.
I will love you forever.
Fredrika found his hand, kissed his fingers. Her lips brushed against the ring he had received when he gained his doctorate; he wore it next to his wedding ring. She had been unable to hold back the tears when they got married. During all the years they had been lovers, she had never once thought that they would be a proper couple. Not once. And now he was both the father of her children and her husband. The only issue that remained was their surname. Fredrika flatly refused to take the name Lagergren, and of course the conservative Spencer didn’t want to be called Bergman.
‘What does it matter what you’re called?’ Spencer had said. ‘Can’t you just drop your maiden name?’
‘Darling Spencer, you could just as easily drop your name!’
At that point the discussion usually came to an end, and they decided it didn’t matter what they were called.
After all, we share everything else.
Fredrika stroked Spencer’s wedding ring, and suddenly realised she was thinking about Eden Lundell. For some reason she had been surprised to discover that Eden was married. It didn’t fit in with her persona, which was hard and uncompromising. Almost as if she ate small children for breakfast, as the Secretary of State had said when they were leaving the conference room.
‘You don’t fuck with Swedish democracy,’ Eden had said. That was no doubt true, but was that really what Zakaria Khelifi had been doing? There was no better way of fucking with democracy than by making people afraid, Fredrika knew that much. It frightened her that following various terror attacks, people were starting to become less critical of laws that went against the principle of integrity. It was almost as if integrity was a luxury that could be afforded only under certain circumstances.
No doubt, Eden had a high level of integrity. Eden, who had honey-coloured hair and smelled of cigarette smoke. Eden, who had the longest legs Fredrika had ever seen, and who looked as if she had just been to war, in spite of the fact that she was wearing a skirt suit.
Some crimes could not be expiated. And it would be both stupid and dangerous to take unnecessary risks when both Säpo and the government had a legal obligation to protect the country’s security. The decision on the case of Zakaria Khelifi had been formally approved at six o’clock, and a few hours later, Säpo would have picked him up. By now he would be sitting in a custody cell.
Fredrika had never dealt with so-called security issues before, nor had she come across the term when she was working for the police. Eden Lundell had given her their cards when they left, but Fredrika didn’t feel comfortable calling any of them. Particularly Eden.
When Spencer had fallen asleep, Fredrika picked up a handout on security issues that a colleague had put together. It confirmed what she had already read on Säpo’s website: