The Friend

by Joakim Zander

  He answers on the third ring with a concentrated, resolute tone in his voice. ‘I think I have him,’ he says.

  Klara feels the stress tearing inside him, inside her. ‘They’re here,’ she says. ‘The Russians. You’ll see the van when you turn around the corner onto Rue Haute.’

  ‘Damn,’ he whispers. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘Or yes. My gut is quite distinct on this point.’

  She hears George take a deep breath.

  ‘Just take it easy,’ Klara says. ‘Continue walking towards the car like we agreed.’

  ‘How are we gonna get away from them?’ he says.

  Klara feels her blood pumping and pounding through her body. What she’s about to suggest crosses all boundaries. But she didn’t choose to be involved in this. They, whoever they are, will have to suffer the consequences.

  She sees George coming around the corner further down the street. ‘Wait,’ she says quietly. ‘Do you see the Russians’ van?’

  She can see him searching along the street. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I see it.’

  She takes a deep breath. ‘You brought the gun, right?’ she says as quietly as she can.

  24 November

  Brussels

  He’s about halfway across the square when the shots ring out between the old, grey buildings. He freezes, no place to hide in the middle of this square. At first he doesn’t even make the connection. The sound’s too loud and violent. But then there’s another shot, and he hears screaming, slamming doors, footsteps running in all directions.

  The man who met him is gone. Jacob is now almost at the street. Standing there in a daze as a shiny, dark-blue Audi suddenly stops right in front of him with the man from the elevator hanging out the window, screaming at him.

  But it’s as if he can’t hear him. As if he’s behind a glass wall and reality can’t penetrate, the world is just a silent movie.

  He slowly turns his head and looks up the street; as if in slow motion he can see men in jeans and leather jackets jump out of a black van. It’s only then that life returns to him, reality returns to colour and sound, and he hears the man shouting from the car, right in front of him.

  ‘Come on!’ he screams in Swedish. ‘Get in the car now! Hurry up, for fuck’s sake!’

  Finally he obeys and takes a few steps towards the car, rips open the door and falls into the back seat. Somehow, he gets the door closed again and the car almost leaps forward with Jacob’s face pressed against the cool leather of the seat. He hears the engine rev, and the man’s stressed voice somewhere in front of him, but he doesn’t have the strength to turn around, can’t even take in where he is, who they are, what’s happening around him.

  Finally, he lifts himself up onto an elbow.

  ‘Take a right there!’ the man shouts.

  ‘Where? The next one?’ says the person driving.

  Jacob is almost sitting up now, and he sees it’s a woman driving. Black hair, short, some kind of pixie cut, probably around thirty. She’s holding onto the wheel so hard her knuckles are white.

  ‘Next turn,’ the man says.

  The man sounds calmer now, but it’s hard-won, as if he’s trying to tame something that’s coursing inside him. The car turns and slows down.

  ‘Damn it!’ the woman shouts. ‘Damn, damn, damn!’

  She drums her hands on the wheel, and Jacob realizes that they’re stuck at a red light and the traffic is heavier here. He turns around and sees a queue forming behind them as well. Slowly the lights change, and they follow the traffic forward again.

  The man turns to look through the rear window, maybe to check if they’re being followed.

  ‘Hi,’ he says hesitantly to Jacob. ‘I really hope you are who we think you are. Otherwise, I don’t really know what to say.’

  ‘How does it look?’ the woman asks grimly. ‘Do you see anything? Are they after us?’

  She’s driving calmly now, following the traffic down a wide street towards a roundabout with a statue in the middle. Buses and trams pass by in the opposite direction.

  ‘I don’t know,’ the man says. ‘Not that I can see.’

  ‘What…’ Jacob begins. He wants to help them keep watch, but doesn’t know what to look for. ‘What happened?’ he says.

  ‘Klara here had the brilliant idea of shooting the tyres on the Russians’ van,’ the man says. ‘So they couldn’t follow us when we picked you up.’

  Even after everything that’s happened to him in recent months, this sounds very strange. He’s just falling deeper and deeper into the rabbit’s hole. ‘Russians’ van?’ he says hesitantly.

  ‘Yes,’ the man says. ‘I feel like we have a lot to talk about.’ He turns back again, looking at Jacob. ‘Just so we’re completely clear on things, you are Karl, right? And you did contact Gabriella Seichelmann?’

  Karl. He’d almost forgotten that was the name he used. He nods. ‘My real name is Jacob,’ he says.

  Klara follows the traffic to the right, between a park and something that looks like a dilapidated palace.

  ‘The Royal Palace,’ says the man when he sees Jacob bending to look at it. ‘Shall we do a little sightseeing on our way out of town?’

  ‘Do you think anyone saw us?’ the woman asks. ‘Is someone following us? Not just the Russians. Anybody else? The police?’

  The man shrugs and turns to her again. ‘I don’t think anyone saw what happened. They definitely heard the shots, but I played the whole thing rather coolly if I do say so myself.’

  The woman throws a quick glance at him. ‘It was chaos, George. You don’t shoot tyres in the middle of a city without someone calling the cops. The question is whether they saw us or the car.’

  ‘Who are these Russians you’re talking about?’ Jacob asks.

  The man turns around and looks at him attentively. ‘We hoped you could tell us. Please say you know what all this bullshit is about.’

  Jacob just shakes his head. ‘I don’t know anything. I’ll tell you what happened to me, but then I have to know who you are. I was supposed to meet Gabriella Seichelmann…’

  ‘Yes,’ the woman behind the wheel says without looking away from the street and the traffic. ‘That’s a reasonable request, I’d say.’

  They weave in and out through blocks full of office buildings, EU flags and straight roads, while Klara and George tell their story. About how it started a few days ago when Gabriella Seichelmann was arrested in Stockholm, and Klara received a letter from her about this meeting.

  They don’t seem to be a couple; in fact they make a point of telling him they’re just old friends. But there’s something about the way they talk to each other, look at each other, that makes Jacob wonder if maybe they just haven’t realized that they’re in love.

  They’ve entered a long tunnel, which ends just as they finish their short story.

  ‘So that’s all we know,’ Klara says. ‘Which is to say basically nothing. Gabi has been arrested, and it seems like the Russians are mixed up in it.’

  ‘And that you probably have something to do with it,’ George says. ‘Now, we’re hoping you can explain to us what the hell is going on. What happened to Gabriella.’

  Jacob takes a deep breath. ‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘I don’t know what happened to Gabriella, but I can tell you what happened to me.’

  24 November

  Brussels

  ‘Before you begin, Jacob,’ Klara says, turning to George. ‘Where are we headed? I’m just driving blindly here.’

  They’re almost out on the ring road around Brussels. Out of old habit Klara is driving towards the airport, but their plan stretched no further than picking up Karl at the Palais de Justice.

  George looks away from Jacob and back to her. ‘I don’t know. Depends a little on what you say, Karl, or Jacob, or whatever your name is.’

  ‘I don’t know where to start…’ Jacob says. ‘I contacted Gabriella because…’

  Slowly and quietly, almost
hesitantly, the young man they have in the back seat starts to tell them a story. He starts from what he says is the beginning. An internship at the Swedish embassy. A rooftop in Beirut. A garden at a deserted palace. A mysterious man and an overwhelming and passionate love.

  Then a young woman who claims to work for the Swedish intelligence service. And a memory card that’s surgically inserted under his skin. A love that slowly turns to doubt. Here he falls silent. As if it’s become too much, tears start to run down his cheeks.

  ‘But he’s dead now,’ he whispers. ‘Yassim is dead.’

  Klara lets go of the wheel with one hand and reaches back to touch his knee, to show she understands what it’s like to lose someone in the way Jacob just lost Yassim.

  George regards Jacob with suspicion. ‘What a fucking story,’ he says. ‘It sounds almost a little too dramatic.’

  ‘I want to remind you that you drugged a Russian spy this morning and shot the tyres on a van like we’re in a goddamn gangster movie,’ she says drily. ‘You might not want to talk about what’s a little too dramatic.’

  He flinches as if offended and turns to Jacob again. ‘I just mean it doesn’t hurt to be a little critical,’ he mutters. ‘Who is this Yassim anyway?’

  Jacob looks at him, annoyed. ‘I’m just telling you what happened.’

  ‘Don’t mind him,’ Klara says. ‘George is a well-known arsehole. But Jacob?’

  ‘Yes?’ Jacob says weakly and looks at her.

  ‘What’s on that memory card, and where do you have it now?’

  ‘And you still haven’t explained who these Russians are,’ George adds. ‘Or why you contacted Gabriella.’

  Jacob takes a deep breath and stares out at the dusk falling around them. ‘Yassim’s part of a group that’s been collecting information about drone strikes in Syria,’ he says. ‘About all the civilians that have been killed, all the war crimes. That’s the information on the memory card. Myriam calls him a spy because the information is classified.’

  ‘So Yassim is the new Snowden?’ Klara says. ‘Is that what you mean?’

  He nods. ‘I guess so. And I guess Myriam is working on behalf of the Americans somehow. That’s what Yassim says, that all the Western intelligence services are working together.’

  ‘What a jackpot for a brand-new embassy intern,’ George says, turning to him. ‘Straight into the thick of it?’

  Jacob shrugs. ‘It wasn’t my choice to end up here.’

  ‘But there’s something that doesn’t add up here,’ George says.

  Klara is silent for a moment, then she nods gently. ‘Yep, it doesn’t explain the Russians. And it doesn’t explain Gabi’s arrest, which is the reason we’re here.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about any Russians,’ Jacob says quietly.

  ‘Also your story doesn’t account for the fact that your boyfriend kidnapped then saved you. What the hell is that all about?’

  ‘I told you I don’t know.’ He lets his head fall forward again, into his hands, and it sounds like he’s sobbing.

  ‘The memory card,’ Klara says. ‘That’s the key. Where is it?’

  In the rear-view mirror, she sees Jacob stick a hand into the pocket of his long parka. When he takes it out again, he’s holding a small, insignificant piece of plastic.

  ‘Is that it?’ says George, almost sneering. ‘Why didn’t your boyfriend just email it to whoever was going to take it?’

  ‘Yassim said they never use email or computers connected to the Internet,’ Jacob says. ‘Everything is done face to face.’

  ‘And Gabriella?’ Klara says. ‘Why did you contact her?’

  He pauses before answering. Why did he contact her? ‘I read about her. She seemed tough, independent. And I didn’t know what would happen when I got here. What if I flew to Brussels and Yassim never showed up? Should I go to the police after what I went through in Beirut? I thought I needed a backup. And I guess I was right.’

  *

  The rain has started to fall harder and harder, and Klara adjusts the wipers.

  ‘We’re going home,’ she says quietly. ‘No sense in staying here. We’re driving back to Sweden.’

  It feels good to make a decision, to have a goal, a direction, even if she has no idea what’s waiting for them there either.

  George types their destination into his GPS, and they follow the blue line on the digital map: Leuven, Cologne, Hamburg, Copenhagen.

  ‘Ten hours to Malmö,’ he says. ‘Then we’ll see where we go from there.’

  3

  24 November

  Belgium/Germany

  It’s getting dark by the time they pass Leuven, and by Liège, night has definitely fallen. Klara glances in the rear-view mirror, but all she can see is a long line of headlights behind her.

  ‘I wonder if someone’s following us,’ she says. ‘I can’t imagine that we got away that easily.’

  ‘Believe me,’ Jacob says from the back seat. ‘It wasn’t that easy.’

  ‘One thing I still don’t understand,’ George says. ‘You had the card under your skin until some shady doctor took it out. But you still have it, even though they imprisoned you in a fucking cellar? How did that work?’

  Jacob looks out the window into the rainy darkness. ‘There are several ways to smuggle things inside the body,’ he says quietly.

  ‘What do you mean?’ George asks. ‘Did you stick it up your arse?’

  Jacob turns and looks at him evenly. ‘It was Alexa’s idea. She thought I should take control of my situation. She’s smart.’ He falls silent, stares out the window again. As if he’s still caught inside what’s happened to him over the past weeks and is finding it hard to speak.

  ‘She didn’t know Yassim,’ he continues quietly. ‘She didn’t know who he was, what we had. I guess she thought he was using me. So she arranged everything with the doctor. We got out the card and found a reader, Alexa has some friend who works with IT stuff. But the card was password protected, of course. The IT guy tried to break into it, but he couldn’t. The encryption was too sophisticated.’

  ‘So you still don’t know what’s on the card?’ George says, rolling his eyes.

  But Jacob barely hears him. ‘Afterwards, Alexa said she could keep it for me. But I promised Yassim to bring it. How could I betray him? So she gave me a condom.’

  ‘She gave you a condom?’ Klara says, looking curiously at him in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘I put the card in it before I left for the airport. Then I swallowed it.’

  ‘Like a drug mule,’ George said.

  ‘Basically,’ Jacob says. ‘And I was able to get out of the cellar before, well… you know.’

  They stop for gas at a rest stop outside Duisburg. The rain is falling heavily now, but Klara needs air and a cigarette. She pulls her jacket tight around her and makes her way between parked semis to the edge of the parking lot.

  The traffic on the autobahn whizzes by, and even if she can’t see much in the darkness she knows the landscape here is flat, just asphalt and boggy fields, typical northern Europe.

  She lights a cigarette and takes her phone out of her pocket, weighs it in her hand. She and George agreed to keep them off. Who knows who might be listening or following their movements via phone? She’s been through too much in recent years to leave anything to chance. But it’s almost been eight hours since she checked it last, and she just has to see if someone tried to reach her.

  Gabriella’s detention hearing was today. The first thing Klara plans to do tomorrow is to call around and find out where they’re holding her and on what grounds.

  So she turns on her phone. Just a quick peek to make sure nothing new has happened. But as soon as the phone finds a network, it vibrates in her hand. A text from a Swedish number she doesn’t recognize. Just two short sentences:

  ‘Secret email. Check it.’

  24 November

  Duisburg

  Klara is sitting in the passenger seat, drumming her fing
ers restlessly on her phone, while George calmly steers his car out onto the autobahn again.

  She glances over at him. How is he so calm? They’ve been on the run for several hours now, driven out of Belgium, are now making their way north through Germany. But how long will it last? They shot a gun in central Brussels at the very moment that terrorists from the Paris attack are being hunted down in Belgium. Of course somebody noticed. Is it just pure luck that they made it this far?

  Her head starts to spin. Maybe they should have switched cars? Or just stopped somewhere and given Jacob’s fucking memory card to the police? But would that even help? Somebody arrested Gabi, and they have to find out why and what’s on that card before making any big decisions. Plus Gabi has now made contact.

  ‘Gabi sent an email to my secret account,’ Klara says. ‘But I’m paranoid and don’t dare log in on one of our phones.’

  ‘What do you mean a secret email?’ George asks.

  ‘We opened an anonymous account a few years ago,’ she says. ‘The first time we landed in a situation like this. So we would have a channel to communicate that wouldn’t necessarily be intercepted. We haven’t used those accounts for a very long time. I hope I remember the password.’

  George nods. His face looks almost terrifying in the cold light of the road and the dashboard.

  Staring out the passenger-side window, Klara thinks she hears a helicopter. It could be a coincidence, could be anything, but it’s clear that George hears it, too. A sign indicating an exit in two kilometres for a rest stop appears.

  ‘We have to get another car,’ she says. The rest stop looks like all other rest stops they passed by in the past few hours. A gas station and auto shop, a crummy restaurant, semis and continuous rain.

  ‘Try to park somewhere so the car won’t be immediately visible,’ Klara says.

  They drive a few turns until George points to a garage.

  ‘There,’ he says. ‘It’s a self-service carwash. We’ll rent it for an hour while we figure out what the hell we should do.’