Bad Blood: A Crime Novel Read Online Free Page A

a café table, his face covered in both cold and hot sweat, and turned toward Chavez and the other half of the exit. Needing extra energy, he ordered a bottle of sports drink, of a brand he recognized from his former career as a body builder. As he downed the half-liter in one gulp, he realized that these days the drink was prepared with what was wrung out of left-behind workout clothes collected from all the world’s gyms. It was possible that he restored his fluid balance; it was certain that he restored the balance of his nausea.
    Between the two men, a quintet who were not entirely difficult to identify as officials trod, against the current, in through the customs area. Hultin stopped and exchanged a few words with the palpably nervous customs employees and joined the other four A-Unit members inside the arrivals hall. He placed himself last in a winding line to the currency exchange, where he had a good view of the hall. The others continued toward passport control, until Hjelm fell away and found himself standing and staring like an idiot at a baggage carousel that wasn’t moving. Seldom has a policeman looked so much like a policeman,and the harder he tried not to look like a one, the more he did. When he felt the blue lights start circling on top of his head, he gave up the charade and was more successful. He sat down on a bench and paged through a brochure, the contents of which would remain eternally unknown to him.
    At passport control, the remaining officers were met by a senior official who admitted Norlander and Holm into their respective booths, where they perched on small, uncomfortable stools in the shadows of the immigration officers. Their presence was hardly noticeable from the outside, and if it was, it probably wouldn’t seem abnormal. They settled in, in anticipation of the coming rush.
    Finally, Arto Söderstedt shoved his way through passport control and slalomed among scattered stragglers up the escalator to the concourse. He didn’t need to consult the arrivals board to identify the right gate. At gate ten, he found a collection of stubbornly recognizable men who were all but neon-blinking “police.” Söderstedt called together the Märsta officers and assigned them more discreet positions. The restrooms were the only truly secluded areas, so he placed one officer to each restroom and made sure that all the staff areas were properly blocked off. That left the duty-free boutiques, bar, and café. He stationed an officer by the name of Adolfsson at the bar, where he managed to look completely out of place, which was an achievement.
    Söderstedt sat down at gate ten and waited. The concourse was still relatively empty. Scattered groups of passengers from earlier flights were wandering around.
    A slight change in the state of things induced Söderstedt to push the loathsome little earpiece into his ear; he always felt as if it disappeared deep in among the creases of his brain. The fateful little word LANDED was now blinking after the notation SK 904 NEWARK on the arrivals board. Söderstedt looked tothe right and through the large panorama window saw the plane roll by.
    He pressed a button inside his belt, cleared his throat, and said, “The game has landed.”
    He stood, straightened his tie, slung the bag over his shoulder, and waited with his eyes closed. Children were snaking back and forth between his legs; parents were yelling, sometimes heart-piercingly and sometimes just piercingly. Experienced wearers of suits kept second-class passengers at a distance with well-practiced smiles.
    He remained still. People hardly noticed him. He didn’t attract attention. He never had.
    Then the line started moving rather quickly. The blockage was sorted out, and he sauntered calmly through the fuselage of the plane, then along the metal jetway, and through the swaying walkway.
    He stepped into gate ten. He was here.
    Now it would come full circle.
    Now he would be able to start for real.
    It was