The Swimmer

by Joakim Zander

  ‘That’s correct. You can call me Josh,’ the man replied, baring his chalk white American teeth in a quick smile.

  ‘And my name is George.’

  The handshake was firm. They held each other’s hands for slightly too long, sizing each other up. George let go first and guided his guest toward the elevators.

  ‘Reiper explained the situation,’ Josh stated more than asked.

  ‘Yes.’ George pressed the elevator button. ‘You have documents that need to be translated. For some reason you’re paying double the rate for me to forget about these documents immediately.’

  Josh’s smile wasn’t unlike Reiper’s. Indulgent, as if he possessed knowledge that made him irreplaceable. He shook his head almost imperceptibly.

  ‘I don’t know anything about payment. That’s Reiper’s area. My job is to ensure that these papers don’t leave the room. Nothing personal, but this is sensitive. Let’s just put it that way.’

  They left the elevator. George’s handmade shoes clattered against the hardwood floor, no doubt made from an endangered species of tree. Josh’s rubber soles were almost soundless.

  ‘I’ll have to ask you to lock the door,’ Josh said when they entered the room.

  ‘Oh, sure,’ George said, and obeyed somewhat hesitantly.

  Josh took out what looked like an older model of a black iPod from the navy laptop bag slung over his shoulder. With his eyes fixed on the screen, he walked quickly around the room. The outcome seemed to be satisfactory, because he put the device away and sat down in one of the leather chairs.

  George considered asking what the hell was going on but didn’t want to appear even more at a loss than he already was. Instead, he sat down on his side of the desk and waited for Josh to take the initiative.

  ‘Here,’ Josh said, and took a small black laptop and green paper folder from his bag.

  ‘The documents in this folder need to be translated. You type it into this computer, nowhere else, okay? It doesn’t need to be perfect. We’re looking for the big picture. We’ll get back to you if we have any questions. Is it okay if I make myself a coffee?’

  He pointed toward the machine next to the small fridge.

  George nodded, lifted the folder from the table, and opened it. The first thing that struck him was that all references to names had been crossed out in black marker. At the top right corner of the first page someone, Josh himself perhaps, had worked hard at crossing out a square area. George quickly flipped through the folder.

  The first document had been created by the Swedish Security Service and consisted of a brief personal report.

  George stopped and looked straight into the air. Säpo, Sweden’s secret police. The square that had been crossed out in the top right-hand corner was almost certainly a classified stamp. It was a dizzying feeling to have classified documents in front of him. This was espionage. Pure and simple.

  There was no other way to look at it. Whoever had released these documents to Reiper and his cronies was guilty of espionage. Inconceivable. George didn’t want to think about what kind of crime he was committing by even holding these papers. But at the same time, it was intoxicating.

  The first document contained what seemed to be a startlingly detailed description of an Arab guy from one of those deeply depressing housing projects outside of Stockholm. A picture of the ten-story building was enclosed. George had never understood how people could live like that. It looked like a Soviet nightmare.

  The person the document described was the oldest of three brothers. He was raised by a single father who’d fled to Sweden from Lebanon after his wife died in what was apparently an Israeli bombing raid in the early 1980s. It seemed that the writer of the report had interviewed this person’s teachers and maybe even his friends, and then translated the results into gratingly bureaucratic Swedish. ‘Scores at the top of his class.’ ‘Conveys strong desire and drive to rise from his current living situation.’ ‘Unusually strong motivation.’ ‘Excellent language abilities. Speaks and writes fluently in Swedish, Arabic, and English.’ ‘Politically interested, but not active.’

  A longer segment dealt with the man’s religion: ‘Secularized Muslim without a strong connection to radical elements or to the local mosque’ was the conclusion.

  Under the title ‘Recreation and Social Life’ the writer had made an effort to show that the person mostly found his friends through sports. Running and basketball, it seemed.

  But his teammates were designated ‘acquaintances’, and the person was described as ‘introverted, though paradoxically exhibiting strong and developed leadership skills’. The report ended with the section title ‘Overall Assessment’, under which the person was considered to be ‘particularly suited’ for ‘special service’. George had no idea what that meant. But his job was to translate this shit into English, not to understand it.

  The second document was longer, over thirty pages, and according to its date only a few days old. The first page of the report was entitled ‘Reasons for Special Supervision’. The text was short: ‘Credible information from foreign intelligence agencies claims that the subject is affiliated with subversive elements in Iraq and/or Afghanistan, see dossier SÄK/R/00058349.’

  The pages that followed summarized the subject’s current situation in life. Law degree. Formerly the chairman of the Foreign Policy Association. Ph.D. student at the Faculty of Law. The courses he had taught. Pictures of a house with his apartment window circled in red. Basketball at the Student Health Center twice a week. A serious romantic relationship with a Klara Walldéen, which ended a few years ago. That name wasn’t crossed out.

  George stood up from his chair and walked over to the coffee machine. He inserted a black capsule and pressed the green button.

  ‘Klara Walldéen,’ he said quietly to himself.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  Josh looked up from his cell phone. He was sitting in the leather chair by the window that faced the park. George watched the raindrops beat against the windowpane and run down toward the windowsill. Yesterday’s chill had given way, and a powerful storm seemed to be moving in over Brussels. The room had suddenly become dim, as if the sun were setting.

  ‘Klara Walldéen,’ George said again.

  George knew who she was. He kept an eye on most of the Swedes in Brussels. And he’d kept an especially close eye on Klara. Not that she had an especially important position. Her member of parliament, Boman, was a classic leftie dragon of the old school, mostly focused on foreign affairs. Not something George was usually interested in. No, he’d kept an eye on Klara for purely personal reasons. She was on his top-five list of the hottest assistants in Parliament.

  ‘She works in the European Parliament,’ he said.

  ‘Exactly,’ Josh replied calmly. ‘Reiper wants you to keep an eye on her. There are indications that she’s had dealings with the terrorist we’re after.’

  Terrorist. The word seemed to echo in the room.

  ‘Keep an eye on? What do you mean by that?’

  George felt uncomfortable. Terrorist. Säpo. ‘Keep an eye on.’ The almost euphoric experience of having classified information in front of him started to give way to the feeling that he might be in over his head.

  ‘No big deal. Just start by following her on social media. That sort of thing. We’d do it ourselves, but our Swedish isn’t so good. As you may have noticed.’

  George sat down again and continued working. The rest of the documents consisted of ‘intelligence reports.’ Brief descriptions of what the person did during the day. Damn, thought George, some poor bastard had had the dreary job of hanging out in front of a building all day long.

  A couple of things bothered him about the report. First of all, it contained precise descriptions and even photographs from inside the subject’s apartment and office. There was something uncomfortable and intrusive about Säpo, or whoever they were, having been inside this person’s room.

  Moreover, there were excerpts from th
e person’s e-mails. Two messages were from a Hotmail address of someone who wanted to meet this person in Iraq and Brussels. The man under surveillance had sent a short e-mail to Klara Walldéen. The latter was sent only eleven days ago and had been flagged, presumably by Reiper or Josh. George, not normally a man of principle, now started to feel uneasy. But he was just a cog in the machine.

  ‘I expect this will take me most of the afternoon,’ he told Josh, and opened up a new document in his word processor.

  ‘You’d better get started then,’ replied Josh, and he leaned back in his chair with a small smile.

  10

  December 19, 2013

  Brussels, Belgium

  Mahmoud spent an hour on the Brussels metro. Changing directions and trains, just like the voice on the phone had told him to. When he reached Gare du Midi, he took the escalator to an empty platform. A low cloud hung over southern Brussels, making it seem like dusk. Drizzle swept across the cracked concrete. Everything was gray. Dreary. The only color in sight was the rust on the tracks and the flaking graffiti on the small sheltered waiting area on the platform.

  He half-hid behind a pillar and then put the battery into the phone. From here he’d be able to see if anyone came up the stairs. He felt his pulse quicken, his throat tighten. The platform, the rain, it all felt more tangible, more real. In a way it was exciting. A game.

  Mahmoud scanned the platform once more, even though he knew it was empty, and clicked on the only number stored in the phone. Someone answered before the first ring had sounded.

  ‘Take a taxi to the Gare du Nord,’ said the muffled voice. ‘Change taxis and drive to the Africa Museum in Tervuren. You should be there in an hour. Okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ Mahmoud replied.

  ‘Take your time when you arrive. Look at the exhibitions. There is an emergency exit at the far end of the room with the giraffe. At six-fifty go through that door and down to the park. The door will be open and the alarm off. Walk around the pond in front of the museum on the right-hand side. On the other side of the hedge, opposite the museum, there will be a statue. You’ll see it. On the right side of it, at the edge of the forest, is a bench hidden by some bushes. I’ll be sitting there at seven o’clock. Don’t be late.’

  11

  January 1985

  Stockholm, Sweden

  The snow extinguishes all sound. If I close my eyes, I’m no longer in a city. The crunch under my rubber soles, wind rushing across my face. I’m on ice. Alone on a frozen lake where the sky and the snow flow into each other and become part of the same mass. If I ever allowed myself to miss anything, I’d miss the Michigan winters.

  The streets here are wide, reminiscent of another time. A time of armies and parades, battlefields, banners flapping in the wind. The simplicity of it makes me sad. The city is as beautiful and solemn as a funeral. The cars keep their lights on, even now during those few confusing hours between dawn and dusk. I’m dressed too lightly, despite the blue down coat that I’ve barely worn since college.

  They’re waiting for me at the US embassy. My new papers are ready. Nobody here knows who I am. Nobody knows where I’m going. But they have their instructions, and they know better than to ask. I lock my bag in a safe in the military attaché’s office and decline his friendly invitation to dinner. I can feel his interest, his curiosity. Behind every secret is another one. Behind every lie, a bigger lie.

  It takes me a moment to make up my mind whether or not to ask. There is a risk, but one that I’m willing to take. This might be my only chance.

  ‘I need the assistance of one of your local staff,’ I say. ‘Someone who speaks Swedish and knows how the Swedish system works.’

  ‘Sure, absolutely,’ he says and seems genuinely happy to be able to help in some way.

  He’s a decent man. A man suited for Irish pubs and the telling of war stories.

  ‘But, of course, we don’t have anyone with sufficiently high security clearance.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter,’ I say. ‘This is purely personal. I just need help finding a friend who I believe is back in Sweden now.’

  ‘I understand. I think the press department has a couple of local researchers on staff. I’ll ask my secretary to make sure you get the help you need.’

  I follow the route that I drew on a map in my room and memorized. Through winding alleys next to the other tourists until I’m sure my shadows have disappeared down in the subway. They say it’s easier here in Stockholm. That Helsinki is worse. Maybe that’s so.

  There’s one hour left. I take a taxi from the castle and ask to be taken to Djurgården. The taxi driver doesn’t understand what I mean, so I show him on the map. This worries me. He’ll remember an American passenger. A trace. I don’t leave traces. But now it’s too late. I ask him to drop me off at the bridge. He speaks terrible English, so I have to show him again. He looks like an Arab, but I can’t change languages. Then the trace would become fluorescent. It doesn’t matter. My shadows have lost me anyway.

  In the bathroom, behind the gates of the Skansen zoo, I change from my blue jacket into a beige coat. Remove my red hat. Carefully take the light yellow folder out of the briefcase and place it in a dark blue nylon backpack. I leave the briefcase, empty and without fingerprints, under a trash can in one of the stalls. Then I leave the zoo, walk down the road to the ferry. Darkness is already falling.

  At three-fifteen I board the ferry. He’s standing alone near the stern. As agreed. Tinted glasses and a tan winter coat. His mustache rivals his leader’s. It’s a face worthy of a long career in the government buildings of Baghdad. I stand next to him and look down at the foam spraying from the propellers. Forgotten Christmas decorations glitter wistfully above the amusement park that we are slowly leaving behind. We have about ten minutes.

  ‘Assalamu alaikum,’ I say.

  ‘Wa alaikum assalam,’ he responds reflexively, surprised. ‘Do you speak Arabic?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘What would you like to communicate? It must be important if the Americans are sending representatives all the way to Stockholm.’

  ‘Satellite images from the day before yesterday. The Iranian fleet is positioned to blockade your traffic in the Persian Gulf. An artillery unit is moving into position for an attack on Baghdad.’

  I look around and then hand the folder to my Iraqi contact. He nods and puts it in his briefcase without looking at it. Although we stand in the lee behind the ferry’s superstructure, the cold is clawing at our cheeks.

  ‘Is that all?’

  The disappointment is plain on his face. No news for him. I shake my head.

  ‘There is one more thing. We’ve found five companies willing to sell what you want. They want to meet in Zurich in two weeks. The details are contained in the folder. I hope I don’t need to explain to you how sensitive this is?’

  There’s another glint in his eyes now. This was what he’d been hoping for.

  ‘Chemicals?’ He restrains himself, but he’s interested now.

  ‘Think bigger.’

  He nods. The distant lights of the amusement park are reflected in his glasses. I feel the vibrations under my feet.

  ‘We are indebted to you,’ he says at last.

  I nod.

  ‘Don’t thank me. I’m just the messenger. And of course my political leaders will expect some form of compensation when this is all over. You can discuss that further in Zurich.’

  We stand in silence. Let the thumping of the engine fill in the gap. If he’s freezing, his face—behind his glasses, his mustache, the heavy burgundy scarf tucked between the lapels of his camel hair coat—doesn’t show it.

  ‘As for the rest...’ he begins.

  His eyes look out toward the south pier: the big red and white ferry, the city rising up behind it. Atoms of snow, compressed by the cold and as hard as grains of salt, swirl weightlessly between us. I don’t say anything, giving him the time he needs. Electricity jolts through me now, makes me crackle,
makes the snow melt at first contact. The roots of revenge are electric.

  ‘Nobody knows anything,’ he continues. ‘Not us. Not the Syrians. Nothing.’

  He turns to me and takes off his glasses. His eyes are warm, surprisingly naked.

  ‘Was it your family?’ he says.

  I don’t say anything but I don’t look away. He knows anyway. All questions are rhetorical. But I have to see his eyes. I have to see straight into his eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he continues. ‘Really. Especially since you’ve been so helpful to us. I wish I could give a more complete answer.’

  I nod now. If he’s lying, he’s a master.

  ‘You know it doesn’t mean anything that I don’t have any information? You know our systems are more organic than yours? Fewer documents, you know. We have shorter, how shall I put this, decision-making procedures. It’s rare for this type of information to reach anyone outside of the innermost circles of intelligence.’

  I nod again. I know all about the organic. All about decision making.

  ‘Someone sends out a signal, someone else passes it on to a third party. There are many stages.’

  ‘But there are always rumors,’ I say. ‘Always.’

  ‘Sure,’ he says.

  A nod. A smile tinged with sadness.

  ‘But you shouldn’t listen to rumors, right?’

  ‘Only if that’s all you have,’ I say.

  He says nothing. His gaze is intense, straight, seemingly honest. He stands like that for a moment. The small granules of snow are dry in his mustache, his eyebrows.

  ‘Sometimes it’s better to just move on,’ he says at last. ‘To leave it to God. Inshallah. God’s will be done.’

  We separate before the ferry docks. I’m already on my way out, full of doubt. Behind me, I leave the promise of death.

  I don’t care about evasive maneuvers as I walk down Strandvägen toward the US embassy. They are welcome to follow me now. A locally employed woman named Louise is waiting for me at her desk in the little office she shares with another local staff member. We seem to be the only ones left in the building.