She looked up from the screen, glanced out of the glass walls of her office. It was as if Säpo had been lifted out of the world around it, cut off from the universe. In a way it was a universe of its own, enclosed and turned away from everything else. When she saw the heavy snow coming down, she felt even more isolated.
She had to pull herself together; it was no good sitting here getting miserable.
She had one last surveillance report on Efraim to look through, and that was where she found her first concrete lead on what he was up to.
The guys tailing Efraim had been quite creative. One of them had gone into Efraim’s hotel, up to the floor where he was staying, and stood outside his door, ready to pretend that he was lost, if anyone asked what he was doing. He had wanted to know if Efraim was alone in the room. According to the report, he hadn’t heard a sound from inside. He had, however, made a discovery. Someone had left Efraim a message. It was lying on the floor outside his door, out in the open so that anyone could read it. The agent had taken a photograph with his mobile.
It wasn’t actually correct to say that anyone could read it; the message was written in Hebrew, and as far as Eden knew, there weren’t many Hebrew speakers in Sweden.
She, however, was an exception. It was an easy language; she had needed less than a year to master it. She read the short lines.
I can see you
all the time
but you can’t see me.
Strange, don’t you think?
Indeed it was strange. Could it be a joke? Was it meant to be funny? She didn’t think so.
She read the message again.
This had nothing to do with any kind of intelligence work, she knew that. Agents and spies didn’t leave each other such indiscreet notes. So it must be related to a private matter.
I can see you.
But you can’t see me.
Eden didn’t understand, and it was clear that she wasn’t meant to. But she did understand one thing, and it bothered her.
Säpo weren’t the only ones watching Efraim.
Someone else was following every step he took.
Alex and Fredrika didn’t waste any time, but went straight from the Eisenbergs to the Goldmanns. They left the car where it was; the very thought of starting it up and driving through the narrow streets of Östermalm in the heavy snowfall raised Alex’s blood pressure.
The Warrior and the Paper Boy.
From what they had learned about both boys so far, these seemed like pretty good descriptions. What bothered Alex was the fact that they had chosen the names themselves. The Warrior he could understand, but what ten-year-old kid would come up with the Paper Boy? Paper was weak, fragile. Easily torn apart. And Boy? Ten-year-olds weren’t usually keen on that word either.
‘Their aliases,’ he said to Fredrika.
‘I was thinking about the same thing. Especially the Paper Boy. Why would he call himself that?’
‘I’ve no idea. We must remember to mention it to his parents, ask if it really should be taken literally, or if there’s some reference we’ve missed.’
They walked in silence through the snow. Why did it have to be so cold? All the time? Alex increased his speed. Perhaps it wasn’t just the Paper Boy they should be puzzling over; the Warrior wasn’t necessarily the obvious choice for a boy in Year Four.
When Alex’s children were little they had played football. Climbed trees. Played hide and seek and hopscotch. Built snow caves. Did kids still do that kind of thing? Or did they spend every waking hour in front of the computer?
Alex hated it when men of his age started to sound like old farts. Nobody listened to old farts, not even Alex himself. But sometimes he caught himself thinking that certain things actually had been better in the past. He and Lena hadn’t even wanted to buy a video player for their children, because they had thought it would make them stupid if they filled their heads with too much crap.
But nowadays children seemed to spend at least half their lives on the computer. Where were their parents during all those hours? Alex had no idea, but they certainly weren’t with their kids. It was hardly surprising that so many young people went astray and came into contact with the wrong people online. You might as well drive them to a sex club and chuck them out of the car with the words: ‘You’re okay to get home on your own, aren’t you?’
The previous day the police had taken the computers the two boys normally used from the Eisenberg and Goldmann households. Alex had spoken to the IT technicians, but had been told that they needed more time; there was too much material to get through in an afternoon. As he and Fredrika left the Eisenbergs he had called the technicians again:
‘There’s a forum called Super Troopers, some sort of elitist crap for kids who want to be winners. Check it out, will you?’
The apartment lay a short distance from Karlaplan, and it was enormous. The Goldmann family business had been very successful, but otherwise their lives were in ruins. Daphne and Saul Goldmann had lost their only child. Alex just couldn’t imagine what that must do to a person.
How many ways are there to offer condolences? Many, he decided. For the third time this week he was sitting with grieving parents, trying to tell them that he understood that what had happened to them was the most horrific thing imaginable, and that he would do all he could to see that justice was done.
‘It was very strange,’ Daphne said in the same icy tone Alex had heard the last time they met. ‘We saw a counsellor at the hospital. Do you know what she said?’
It was a rhetorical question. She didn’t seem to expect an answer.
‘No,’ Alex said anyway.
‘She said we were still parents. Parents without a child.’
She looked at her husband.
‘Parents without a child? What kind of parents are those? Is that supposed to make me feel better?’
Alex and Fredrika exchanged a glance. They were in deep waters here. They could say that the counsellor was only doing her job, but it was probably best not to get involved.
‘I agree,’ Alex said instead. ‘That was a very peculiar thing to say.’
‘Wasn’t it just?’ Daphne said.
Silence fell in the library where they were sitting. Between the tall bookcases they could see framed enlargements of black and white photographs. A young Saul and Daphne in uniform. With and without guns in their hands. Or on their backs. Alone or with others. Alex recognised Gideon Eisenberg in one of the pictures.
‘You know the Eisenbergs?’ he said.
Daphne and Saul nodded.
‘Is that how Simon and Abraham became friends?’
The parents without a child looked as if they didn’t know how to answer.
‘Yes and no,’ Saul said eventually. ‘Gideon and I knew each other well in Israel, and then we moved to Stockholm at the same time. Had children at the same time. But we grew apart, as they say.’
Daphne joined in.
‘We got to know different people here, worked in different places. After a while we didn’t seem to have that much in common. But the boys ended up in the same class at the Solomon school, and carried on spending time together.’
Alex could see that Fredrika had also noticed the picture of Gideon.
She pointed: ‘Did you and Gideon do your military service together?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was that where you got to know one another?’
He shook his head.
‘We grew up on the same kibbutz. We’re the same age, and we were in the same class until we finished high school.’
So they had known each other since they were born, and had eventually decided to emigrate together, yet they were no longer close friends. There must have been some kind of disagreement, otherwise that wouldn’t have happened.
‘Did you stay in the army, or did you have a civilian career in Israel?’ Fredrika asked.
Saul stiffened.