‘Are there people who get involved in all this out of sheer solidarity?’ she asked.
It was a new question, one Jakob had never had at any of his lectures before.
‘After all, there are plenty of organisations in Sweden and the rest of Europe working with refugees, so isn’t there anyone there who helps asylum seekers get to Sweden?’ she went on. ‘In a better and more humane way than the smugglers?’
The question sank in and took hold. He hesitated for quite a while before he replied. Not quite knowing how much he ought to say.
‘Helping people enter Europe illegally is a criminal act. Regardless of what we think about it, that’s a fact. And it also means anyone doing that would be committing a punishable offence, which is enough to deter even the most noble of benefactors.’
He hesitated again.
‘But I have heard that things might be starting to change. That there are people who empathise strongly enough with the refugees to want to give them the chance of getting to Europe for a considerably lower sum. But as I said, that’s only hearsay, nothing I know for certain.’
He paused, felt his pulse start to race as he prayed a silent prayer.
He wound things up the way he always did.
‘As I’ve told you, I don’t think we need to worry that there are vast numbers of people in the world wishing they lived on a sink estate in Stockholm with no work or permanent housing. What we really must think about, on the other hand, is this: is there anything a father will not do to make secure provision for his children’s future? Is there any act a human being will not commit to create a better life for him- or herself?’
At the same time as Jakob Ahlbin was bringing his final lecture to a close and receiving loud applause, a Boeing 737 that had left Istanbul a few hours before touched down at Stockholm’s Arlanda Airport. The captain who had flown the plane to the capital was informing the passengers that it was minus three outside and that snow was forecast for the evening. He said he hoped to welcome them back on board soon and then an air steward asked all passengers to keep their safety belts fastened until the sign was switched off.
Ali listened nervously to the voices making the announcements but understood neither the English nor the other language they spoke, which he took to be Swedish. Sweat was trickling down his back, making the shirt he had bought for the journey stick to his skin. He tried not to lean back against his seat, but did not want to attract attention by leaning forward as he had done on the flight from Baghdad to Istanbul. He had been asked several times by the cabin crew if everything was all right and whether he needed anything to drink or eat. He shook his head, wiped the sweat from his top lip with the back of his hand and closed his eyes. He hoped that they would be there soon, that it would all be over and he would know he had reached safety.
He was tingling all over with anxiety. He squeezed the armrests with both hands and clenched his jaw. For what must have been the hundredth time he looked around the plane, trying to work out who his escort might be. Who was the secret person sitting among all the other passengers just to make sure he behaved himself and followed his instructions? A shadow, sent by his liberator. For his own good. For everybody else’s good. So there would be no problem for others, like him, who would be given the chance to come to Sweden on such generous terms as himself. The false passport was tucked into the breast pocket of his shirt. He had put it in his hand luggage to start with, but had to take it out when the stewardess came and pointed at the sign saying his seat was next to an emergency exit. That meant you were not allowed to have your bags under the seat in front of you but had to stow them in the overhead compartments. Ali, almost giving way to panic, could not bear to be separated from his passport. With trembling hands he opened the zip of his bag and rummaged for the passport, which had slipped down to the bottom. He gripped its hard covers, thrust it into his shirt pocket and handed the bag to the stewardess.
The instructions once he was in Sweden were crystal clear. On no account was he to ask for asylum while he was still at the airport. Nor was he to leave his documentation behind or hand it over to the escort on the plane before he got off. The passport contained a visa that said he was a business traveller from one of the Gulf States and entitled to enter the country. The fact that he spoke no English should not be a problem.
The plane taxied in, gliding surprisingly softly over the hard, frost-covered tarmac, and approached Gate 37 where the passengers were to disembark.
‘What happens if I fail?’ Ali had asked his contact in Damascus who had first made him the offer.
‘Don’t worry so much,’ the contact replied with a thin-lipped smile.
‘I’ve got to know,’ said Ali. ‘What happens if I fail in any of these tasks I’ve got to do? I’ve spoken to other people going to the same place. This isn’t the way it usually happens.’
The contact’s look had darkened.
‘I thought you were grateful, Ali.’
‘Oh I am,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s just that I wonder…’
‘Stop wondering so much,’ the contact broke in. ‘And you are not, under any circumstances, to say anything about this to anyone else. Not ever. You’ve got to focus on just one thing, and that’s getting into this country the way we’ve arranged, and then you must carry out the task we shall be giving you. After that you can be reunited with your family. That’s what you want, isn’t it?’
‘More than anything else.’
‘Good, so worry less and focus more. If you don’t, the risk is that you could be more unhappy than you have ever been in your life.’
‘I can’t be any more unhappy than I am now,’ whispered Ali, head bowed.
‘Oh yes you can,’ answered his contact in a voice so cold that Ali stopped breathing from sheer terror. ‘Imagine if you lost your whole family, Ali. Or they lost you. Being alone is the only true unhappiness. Remember that, for your family’s sake.’
Ali closed his eyes and knew he would never forget. He recognised a threat when he heard one.
As he went through passport control ten minutes later and knew he had got into the country, the thought came back to him again. From this point on, there was only one way forward: the path taking him away from the life he was now even more certain he had left behind him for ever.
WEDNESDAY 27 FEBRUARY 2008
STOCKHOLM
The home-made croissants on offer in the Criminal Investigation Department staff room looked like something else entirely. Peder Rydh took two at once and grinned as he nudged his new colleague Joar Sahlin, who gave him a blank look and made do with one.
‘Cocks,’ clarified Peder in a word, holding up one of the croissants.
‘Pardon?’ said his colleague, looking him straight in the eye.
Peder stuffed half a croissant into his mouth and answered as he was chewing it.
‘They look like limp prickth.’
Then he sat himself down beside the female police probationer who had started work on the same floor a few weeks earlier.
It had been a tough autumn and winter for Peder. He had celebrated his twin sons’ first birthday by leaving their mother, and since then he had screwed up pretty much everything else as well. Not at work, but privately. The woman who had wanted to be his girlfriend, Pia Nordh, suddenly turned her back on him, saying she had found someone else.
‘It’s the real thing this time, Peder,’ she had said. ‘I don’t want to sabotage anything that feels so right.’
Peder gave a snort and wondered how serious it could really be for a good lay like Pia Nordh, but had the sense not to voice his opinion out loud. Not just then, anyway.