The Chosen by Kristina Ohlsson Page A

bodies had sunk down, and were difficult to see from
a distance.
    Two children. Like snuffed-out snow angels with paper bags on their heads.
    Two boys. With bare, frozen feet.
    Eden crouched down.
    ‘Fuck,’ the head of the protection unit said behind her.
    The forensic pathologist would be able to provide more information about what had happened to the boys, but at first sight there didn’t appear to be any major injuries, apart from the
bullet wounds that had presumably killed them.
    ‘Is this where they died?’ Eden asked one of the CSIs standing a short distance away.
    ‘We haven’t got that far yet, but yes, I think that seems to be the case. If you look at the tracks in the snow, it looks as if the boys walked or ran to the spot where they are now.
They appear to have been shot in the chest.’
    Eden looked around.
    Children’s footprints in the snow. Bigger prints alongside the small ones. The killer’s. He, or she, had walked up to the victims to check that they really were dead.
    And put paper bags over their heads.
    Why?
    Someone had drawn faces on the paper bags. Big eyes, wide open as if in terror. And big mouths that looked as if they were calling out to someone or something.
    ‘This isn’t our case,’ her colleague said. ‘I’ve spoken to the police, and they’re on their way.’
    Eden gazed at the boys for a moment before she got to her feet. She knew instinctively that the paper bags were important to the killer. They carried a message, directed to someone other than
the police.
    The only question was – to whom?
    But someone else could work that out. Eden had enough problems of her own.
    If Efraim Kiel dared to take as much as one single step in her direction, he would pay a higher price than he could ever have imagined.

T hree murders in less than twenty-four hours. Something like that would send shock waves through any community, particularly in a country like Sweden. Sheltered and protected, a kingdom of
safety and security.
    A discovery had been made on the edge of a golf course not far from Drottningholm Palace. No further details had been released, but that was enough for Efraim Kiel. He realised they must
have found the boys. He listened attentively to the news bulletin on the radio.
    He packed his case, his movements slow and hesitant. He hated the constant travelling, the endless series of anonymous hotel rooms that served as his home. The apartment in Jerusalem was
just one of many places where he stayed; it had never been his real base.
    He missed having a proper home.
    Sometimes he thought he had no roots at all.
    He flipped his case shut. The Solomon Community in Stockholm had a new head of security. Two, if you counted Peder Rydh, who would fill the post until the summer. Poor sod. He had no idea of
what was waiting for him.
    Efraim gazed out at all the snow. The summer seemed so far away. How could people live in a place like this? Cold and dark. That was his overall impression of the past few days.
    He had been in Stockholm before, of course. As recently as last October. His employer had decided it was time for a fresh approach. One final attempt to recruit Eden Lundell. At the time she
had only just started her job as head of counter-terrorism with Säpo; by now she must be well established.
    She had said no. Very clearly. Only two weeks after Efraim had made his move, Mossad’s liaison officer for Scandinavia had been called in to see the general director of Säpo, and had
been castigated for the fact that his organisation had the gall to try to infiltrate Sweden’s security police. It pained him to admit it, but Säpo’s handling of the issue had been
impressive. Mossad had also been surprised by Eden’s reaction; it seemed she had gone straight to her boss and put all her cards on the table.
    ‘There is nothing I don’t know,’ Buster Hansson had said. ‘I know that you got one of your operators to seduce Eden in London, and made her look like an idiot in