Lars Kepler - The Nightmare

“Yes, that’s right,” he says as he raises his eyes. “Unfortunately, Pontus Salman sends his regrets. He cannot make this meeting.”

“We received no notice of a cancellation,” Saga says. “We must talk to him-”

“I am very sorry.”

“Please call him. Tell him we’re here,” Saga says.

“I’ll try, but I believe… he’s in a meeting.”

“On the fourth floor,” Joona inserts.

“The fifth,” the receptionist corrects automatically.

Saga sits down in one of the reception chairs. The sun streams in through the windows and spreads like fire in her hair. Joona remains standing as the receptionist lifts his phone to his ear and taps a number. The busy signal sounds and the receptionist shakes his head.

“Hang up,” Joona says. “We’ll just surprise him instead.”

“Surprise him?” the receptionist repeats uncertainly.

Joona simply walks to the glass door beyond the reception desk and opens it.

“You don’t even need to tell him we’re coming,” Joona says. Saga gets up from the chair and follows Joona.

“Wait!” the man calls out. “I’ll try to-”

They keep walking through the hallway and into an open elevator. They punch the button for the fifth floor. The door closes and the elevator moves silently upward.

Pontus Salman is waiting for them when the doors open. He is about forty years old and there is a worn, tired look to his face.

“Welcome,” he says drily.

“Thanks.”

Pontus Salman looks them over.

“A detective and a fairy-tale princess,” he says.

As they follow Salman through a long hallway, Joona runs through their plan in his mind.

Joona feels a cold shiver down his back-as if Viola Fernandez is opening her eyes right then in her cold box, watching him expectantly.

The hallway is lined with dark-tinted glass, creating an aura of timelessness. The office itself is fairly large and contains a desk of elm wood and a light gray sofa group around a black glass coffee table.

They each take one of the stuffed chairs. Pontus Salman smiles cheerlessly and forms a steeple with his hands. Then he asks, “Why are you here?”

“You know that Carl Palmcrona of ISP is dead?” asks Saga.

Salman nods. “I heard it was a suicide.”

“Our investigation into that is not yet finished,” Saga says in a friendly manner. “We’re following up on a photograph we found. We want to find out who these people are around Palmcrona.”

“Three of them are clear, but one person is blurry,” Joona says.

“We’d like some of your employees to take a look, too. Perhaps someone will recognize him. One hand, for instance, is a little sharper.”

“I understand,” Salman says and purses his lips.

“Maybe someone can tell who it is from the context,” Saga says. “It’s worth a try.”

“We’ve visited Patria and Saab Bofors Dynamics,” Joona says. “None of them knows.”

Pontus Salman’s tired face shows nothing at all. Joona wonders to himself if Salman takes pills to keep calm and self-confident. There’s something remarkably lifeless in his eyes-a lack of expression and contact-as if something inside has slid away, leaving him with no connection to anything at all.

“You must think this is important,” Salman says, crossing one leg over the other.

“Indeed we do,” Saga says.

“May I see this unusual photograph?” Pontus Salman asks in his easy but impersonal manner.

“Besides Palmcrona, we’ve identified the weapons dealer, Raphael Guidi,” Joona says. “We’ve also identified Agathe al-Haji, who is the military adviser for President al-Bashir… but no one recognizes this fourth person.”

Joona takes out the folder, and then hands over the photograph in its protective plastic cover. Saga points to the blurred person. Joona watches her concentrate on Salman to register every nuance, every nervous signal in his body if he lies.

Salman moistens his lips and, even though his cheeks turn pale before he smiles, he taps the photograph and says, “But that’s me!”

“It’s you?”

“Yes,” he says with a laugh, revealing small, childlike front teeth.

“But-”

“We had a meeting in Frankfurt,” he continues with a pleased smile. “We were listening to a wonderful… well, I don’t remember what they were playing… maybe Beethoven…”

Joona tries to understand this unexpected confession. He clears his throat.

“You’re absolutely sure?”

“Of course,” Salman says.

“Well, that solves that puzzle,” Saga says warmly with no hint of their miscalculation.

“Maybe I should get a job at Sapo,” Salman jokes.

“If I may ask, what was this meeting about?” asks Joona.

“I can talk about it now.” Salman laughs and looks directly at Joona. “This photo was taken in the spring of 2008. We were discussing a shipment of ammunition to Sudan. Agathe al-Haji was negotiating on behalf of the government. The area needed to stabilize after the peace agreement in 2005. The negotiations were fairly far along, but all our work went up in smoke in the spring of 2009, of course. We were shaken, yes, you understand… and since then, we’ve had no contact with Sudan.”

Joona looks at Saga since he has no idea what happened in the spring of 2009. Saga is wearing a neutral expression, so he decides to ask another question.

“How many meetings did you have?”

“Just the one,” he answers. “And even I can see how it appears odd that the director of ISP is accepting a glass of champagne.”

“You think?” Saga asks.

“There was nothing to celebrate. But perhaps he was just thirsty,” Salman says with a smile.

Penelope and Bjorn have no idea how long they’ve remained hidden within this deep crevice on the face of a cliff. They simply couldn’t run any farther. Their bodies were beyond exhausted and they’d taken turns sleeping and keeping watch.

In the beginning, it seemed as if their pursuer had anticipated every move they’d made, but now the sense of his immediate presence was gone. For some time, he’d been noticeably quiet. That clammy feeling on their backs, the chilling sensation of someone running right behind them, had disappeared the moment they made the unpredictable choice of heading for the center of the forest and away from humankind and the mainland.

Penelope is uncertain if her mother’s answering machine caught any of her words. But soon someone will find Bjorn’s boat, she thinks. After that, the police will start looking for us. All they need to do is stay hidden long enough from their pursuer.

Although the rounded rock surface above is covered in moss, the crevice in the cliff is bare stone and in many spots clear water is dripping. It had been hot when they first found this spot, and they had lapped the water and decided to stay for the rest of the day. Toward evening, as the sun sank behind the shadow of the trees, they’d fallen asleep.

Dreams and dozing memories are mixed in Penelope’s mind. She hears Viola play “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” on her tiny violin with stickers on the fingerboard to show where the fingers should go. She watches Viola put on pink eye shadow and pinch her cheeks in front of the mirror.

Penelope gasps when she wakes up.

Bjorn is sitting wide awake with his arms around his knees and trembling.

This is the dawn after the third night and they can’t bear it any longer. They are hungry and weak. They leave their hiding place and begin to walk.

It’s almost morning when Penelope and Bjorn come to the water’s edge. The sun’s red rays form glowing streaks along the long veils of clouds. The water is still in the morning calm. Two mute swans glide beside each other on the surface, paddling quietly away.