I see him just before he stops next to me. His white scar glowing in the evening sun. He’s pale. Porous. His gray hair cut short around his balding head. Like me, he’s dressed in a mismatched field uniform without insignia. A spy in wartime. He takes a sip of his beer and belches into his fist. He looks happy. This is his milieu, his war.
‘That’s some pretty impressive bullshit,’ he says and stretches.
A smile lurks on his lips. I don’t say anything.
‘Bush on that goddamn boat? That was some wonderful, fucking bullshit.’
He throws his empty beer bottle in a wide arc toward a Dumpster thirty feet away. It lands with a ring without crushing.
I nod, signaling vaguely that I agree.
We stand in silence for a minute before he turns toward the door of the mess hall.
‘You want another beer?’ he says over his shoulder.
I shake my head.
‘It won’t hold up,’ I say instead.
He stops and turns around. He raises his eyebrows in exaggerated or feigned surprise.
‘What? What won’t hold up?’
I don’t look at him. I just squint out the sun flashing off the windows of the dusty Jeeps.
‘You know what I mean. The interrogation policy. Our methods in the interrogation rooms. It won’t hold up.’
He turns back from the door, comes over to me again. That little smile in the corner of his mouth.
‘Even if it did pay off,’ I say, ‘the methods are too brutal. People will say anything, admit to anything. Just to stop it. You can’t trust the results.’
‘Bullshit,’ he says, looking me straight in the eye. ‘Bullshit. Do not give me that bullshit. You’ve seen the results. Intel rates have quadrupled since we started the enhanced interrogation program. We take more weapons. We know more about the leadership. More about what they’re planning.’
He steps back, eyeing me.
‘What the hell… you’re not losing your grip, are you?’
‘Losing my grip? All I’m saying is that the methods are inhumane. And don’t lead to reliable results. That’s all. We break them down, and we don’t get reliable results in exchange. All the research points to that.’
‘Research,’ he sputters. ‘What fucking research? Do you have a Ph.D. in interrogation techniques or something? We’re in the middle of a goddamn war, if you haven’t noticed. No matter what the president says on TV. War, okay? Eat or be eaten. If you can’t handle it, get on a plane and go back to Langley where you can be discussing the latest New York Times editorial around the watercooler by tomorrow morning. But out here, it’s what works that matters. And what we do works. It’s as simple as that.’
‘But it doesn’t fucking work!’
I don’t mean to raise my voice, but his reptilian eyes, his thirst for blood, it triggers my fury. His kind have the upper hand now. Car batteries and electrodes. Everything has changed since Kurdistan.
My colleague says nothing. He just eyes me closely. So I continue. Kicking the sand, the empathy draining from my eyes. We stare at each other. The sound of the TV and the voices from inside the mess hall. The smell of fried food and a dry spring. He turns away first.
‘It’s time for you to rotate home,’ he says. ‘Your time in the field is past its due date, when you’re not able to make the hard decisions anymore. Best you pack your bags.’
I say nothing, just continue looking at him calmly.
‘You know that, right?’
He takes a step closer. He’s up in my face. His breath smells like beer and dust and tobacco.
‘You always were a little cunt,’ he hisses. ‘I knew that back in Iraq. I knew you were a little, fucking cunt. You better make sure you get a spot on the next rotation home from Kabul. You’re done here.’
He spits in the dirt, turns around, and goes back into the mess hall without turning around. Is this how it ends?
36
December 20, 2013
Stockholm, Sweden
Gabriella climbed out of the taxi in front of Albert & Jack’s Bakery and Deli on Skeppsbron, right next door to the law firm Lindblad and Wiman. Halfway up the three steps to the café, she changed her mind. It was past three, she still hadn’t had lunch, but she wasn’t hungry anymore. Her nagging unease overrode all other bodily functions.
Mahmoud, she thought. What’s going on?
Bronzelius had asked her to contact him if Mahmoud reached out to her. It might make things easier, he said. Säpo, the Swedish Security Service, was convinced it was all a misunderstanding. Mahmoud would probably just need to turn himself in and explain what happened. The whole thing could probably be resolved informally.
Gabriella sighed. She didn’t know what to believe. But it was definitely a relief that Säpo thought he was innocent.
Wet December snow fell into her thick, red hair as she walked the few steps to Lindblad and Wiman’s entrance. Dark clouds hung over Djurgården and the Stockholm harbor. It had been a merciless December so far.
She sat down with a sigh in front of her computer and started answering the e-mails she hadn’t had time to look through in detail on her BlackBerry in the taxi on her way back from court. But she couldn’t focus, so she leaned back in her chair instead. Her tall windows looked out onto a red eighteenth-century house on the other side of Ferkens Gränd, a narrow side street.
She picked up her phone and tried calling Mahmoud, as she’d tried a dozen times already. When she couldn’t reach him, she called Klara again, but her phone was also turned off.
Shit. What was going on?
‘Why did I end up on the phone with a Cardigan from Säpo on my already nonexistent lunch break today?’
Gabriella winced and looked up from her computer. Hans Wiman was standing in the doorway. His intelligent, gray eyes, famous from countless televised press conferences and Swedish TV morning shows, were fastened on Gabriella. ‘Cardigan’ was his infamous nickname for anyone belonging to a profession where a suit was not required work attire.
Wiman always wore a suit. Zegna or Armani. Even on Saturdays, as Gabriella had observed during the many weekends she’d spent in the office working on a case.
The first sign that your career at Lindblad and Wiman was nearing its end was if Wiman was heard describing you as a Cardigan. After that it was just a matter of weeks or months until you were told you weren’t ‘partner material’. You weren’t fired, they had more tact than that, but it meant it was time to start thinking about Plan B.
‘Säpo?’ Gabriella said.
She wasn’t prepared for this. She made a quick calculation. If the Security Service had talked to Wiman, he probably already knew she was acquainted with the wanted ‘terrorist’ or ‘elite soldier’—depending on which tabloid you read—Mahmoud Shammosh. Might as well put her cards on the table.
‘Regarding Mahmoud Shammosh?’ she said.
‘Regarding you, Gabriella,’ Wiman said. He continued to hold her gaze, his red tie glaring in the gloom.
‘Me?’
She swallowed. If there was anything that could jeopardize a career, surely becoming the focus of a Säpo investigation must be it?
Wiman nodded. He seemed to enjoy watching her squirm. Was this a test?
‘A Mr Bronzelius, if I remember correctly. He mentioned he’d been looking for you at court?’
Gabriella cleared her throat. Why did she feel guilty? She hadn’t done anything wrong.
‘That’s correct. He found me at the courthouse this morning and interviewed me about a friend of mine. Mahmoud Shammosh. He’s wanted for a murder in Belgium, apparently.’
‘Doctor Death,’ Wiman said.
He smiled a thin, barely perceptible smile. Apparently the evening papers had updated their description to include Mahmoud’s status as a Ph.D. student. ‘Sometimes the tabloids really do nail it.’
Gabriella said nothing, just nodded.
‘Interesting friends you surround yourself with, Gabriella,’ Wiman said
. ‘A terrorist, huh?’
He seemed to be savoring it.
‘What else should we expect from your past? Bank robbers, perhaps? Simple thieves, rapists?’
Gabriella blushed. The insensitivity of Wiman’s banter was unbelievable. She struggled with herself not to interrupt him.
‘I mean, the more interesting your history is, the better it will be for business, right? A suspected terrorist could be a gold mine for a young lawyer. Especially in this sort of case. Lawyer and terrorist, friends since university. They moved in different directions but were finally reunited in a protracted lawsuit with international overtones. The media will hit the roof. Regardless of how it ends, you’ll have made a name for yourself. And a name is the most important thing in this business.’
‘Okay,’ Gabriella said. ‘I’m not sure I understand. What are you trying to get at?’
She was confused. Where was Wiman going with this?
‘I believe it’s in our—your—interest to make contact with your friend the terrorist. When you do, make sure he hires you as his lawyer immediately, so Säpo can’t ask you any tricky questions. Lawyer confidentiality won’t protect you until he’s your client, as you probably remember from your bar exam.’
Gabriella was growing annoyed. She hardly needed reminding of one of the most basic rules of the legal profession. But at the same time, she felt relieved. Not only that Säpo’s interest in her might turn out not to be detrimental to her personally, but that she also might even be able to help Mahmoud with her boss’s blessing.
‘Once contact is established,’ continued Wiman, ‘and I have no doubt that will happen in the very near future, make sure Shammosh comes to Sweden. It’s absolutely essential, unless you happen to be a member of the Brussels Chapter of the Belgian Law Society, that is? Once he’s here, we’ll make sure to keep him hidden for a while, in order to maximize exposure. Eventually he’ll have to be extradited to Belgium, of course. And then we’ll have to cooperate with a Brussels firm—’
‘Maximize exposure,’ interrupted Gabriella at last. She couldn’t hold back any longer. ‘You mean this is a PR opportunity for the company, nothing else? This is my friend we’re talking about. And besides, he’s innocent. For God’s sake, shouldn’t that be our focus here?’
Wiman shook his head and smiled his razor thin smile again.
‘Gabriella, I appreciate your… how shall I put this… idealism? Loyalty?’
He articulated the words like questions, as if their meanings were genuinely unfamiliar to him.
‘There are different kinds of cases, Gabriella. There are cases where we have to win to get noticed, to get a name. And then there are cases where it’s enough to just be a key player. Where, in fact, it might ultimately be better not to win. Cases in which a draw is preferable, you might say. You call them PR opportunities. Well, maybe so. The law profession is a business. If justice is what you’re concerned with, you’d probably feel more at home with the Cardigans in the DA’s office.’
Gabriella took a deep breath. She was close to being associated with the Cardigans. That was never good.
‘Moreover, this isn’t just a PR opportunity for the company, it’s a PR opportunity for you. This could prove to be a decisive case for your career. This is how stars are made. Plus you’ll have the chance to help your friend. It’s win-win, Gabriella. Nobody loses.’
What was there to object to anyway? What Wiman was saying meant she’d have an officially sanctioned opportunity to help Mahmoud. If that was because Wiman wanted more media coverage for the company, well it didn’t really make much difference. Win-win. Gabriella swallowed the sour taste in her mouth.
‘Sounds good,’ she said. ‘Assuming he gets in touch.’
‘He will. Keep me updated on this. I want to follow it closely. If we need someplace for him to lie low, I can take care of that. And when the storm hits, we’ll hand off your day-to-day stuff to your colleagues. A few more billable hours would do them good.’
Gabriella nodded, thinking that soon her colleagues would have even more reason to dislike her than they already did.
37
December 20, 2013
Paris, France
The high-speed train from Brussels slowed, almost silently, under the art nouveau ceiling of Europe’s busiest train station, Gare du Nord in Paris. Klara turned to Mahmoud, who was still sleeping deeply. She untangled her hand from his. The intimacy of an hour ago still hung like a shadow, unfamiliar and foreign.
Mahmoud woke up with a start and looked around.
‘Are we there?’ he said, gazing out the window onto the crowded platform.
He looked more rested. An hour of sleep seemed to have done him good.
‘Yes,’ replied Klara. ‘Now we’ll see if we guessed right.’
‘There are police officers out there,’ Mahmoud said. ‘I thought you said they don’t usually check passports here at the station?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Klara replied. ‘Only if they suspect something fishy. Aren’t routine checks prohibited by the Schengen Agreement?’
‘You’re the hotshot EU expert,’ Mahmoud said and shrugged. ‘But I hope you’re right. Otherwise things might get a little complicated.’
‘Because you’re wanted for murder?’ whispered Klara. She looked at Mahmoud wide-eyed, feigning innocence.
‘Can you stop saying “wanted for murder,”’ hissed Mahmoud. ‘Seriously, it’s not a joke.’
Klara couldn’t help giggling, nervously. The whole situation was too absurd not to joke about it. They stood up and joined the flow of passengers walking through the center aisle.
Klara felt the adrenaline starting to pump through her veins. So far so good. It was unusual to have your passport checked in Paris; she’d been here probably ten times and never been checked. The EU’s goal of a Europe without borders seemed to be working so far. Many people commuted between Paris and Brussels every day. But she’d never traveled together with a person wanted for a crime. She could see on Mahmoud’s face that he was stressed: his muscles were tense, and he was grinding his teeth almost imperceptibly, as if he was chewing a tiny piece of gum.
They stepped down from the train and moved with the other passengers through the turnstiles at the far end of the platform. Klara struggled to keep from looking at the two policemen who stood watching the new arrivals. They didn’t seem very engaged; they mostly seemed to be gazing aimlessly out over the sea of people.
She and Mahmoud had almost reached the turnstiles, when Klara heard someone yelling behind her. The sound of running steps approaching the platform.
‘Monsieur, Monsieur! Arrêtez! Stop!’ she heard a man shout behind them.
She felt as if her heart had stopped, as if it had suddenly dislodged from her chest and fallen down on the platform in front of her. Panicked, she glanced sideways at Mahmoud. He met her gaze. Resolute. Hard. His eyes had a determination that frightened her. He slowly turned around.
But the person wasn’t shouting at Mahmoud. Instead, one of the train conductors caught up with another passenger and handed him a bag that he’d apparently left at his seat. If she’d been able to breathe, she would have let out a sigh of relief.
Mahmoud didn’t seem relieved. Instead he took firm hold of her arm and led her brusquely through the turnstiles and into the station.
‘Just do exactly as I say,’ he said. ‘Do not turn around. We’re being followed.’
38
May 2003–December 2010
Northern Virginia, USA
Is this really how it ends? Not with a bang, but a whimper. A ten-hour flight, a week of mandatory vacation, a pat on the back and an empty, gray desk under the unforgiving fluorescent lights of a cheerless office?
‘We’ll get you an office soon,’ Susan tells me without meeting my eyes.
But the days go by and the room remains as elusive as my new tasks. Sympathetic glances, whispers around the coffeemaker. They don’t know who I am—everyone here is youn
ger than me—but the rumors have preceded me.
I’m the old field agent sent home because he wasn’t able to make the tough calls required by war, who didn’t have the stomach for Afghanistan. It doesn’t surprise me. We’re all spies. What do we have if not our rumors, our half-truths, our fragments taken out of context?
The only ones I know are those of my colleagues who rose through the ranks. Who accepted the proprieties and mastered the shifting alliances. Who have always done better in their town houses than in the shadows. Whose goals from the very beginning were breakfast meetings with presidential advisers and dinner parties with ambassadors. They didn’t interest me back then, and they don’t interest me now. Nevertheless, they stop by dutifully, glance at my tidy desk while they avoid meeting my eyes, their fingers drumming on the red plastic of my empty inbox.
‘Your expertise will be invaluable here,’ they say, making a quick calculation of how many years are left until they can finally put me out to pasture. Someone recommends a contact at some private company in Iraq.
Everything is privatized now. Contractors. Fieldwork and big money. ‘Your expertise would be invaluable there.’
But I can’t bring myself to apply. Just sitting up and putting my feet on the floor after another twelve hours of whiskey- and pill-induced sleep is all I can manage. And barely even that. I don’t so much as glance at the pool when I drive to work. Perhaps I’ve forgotten how to swim? God knows I’ve willed myself to forget everything else.
And I don’t dream every night anymore. Not even the recurring nightmares, from which I used to wake up feverish, the sheets kicked off the bed, manically groping my chest, searching for imaginary bullet holes, broken bones, grief. I miss them. When I do dream it’s about the mountains. An endless panning shot of gravel and grass in fractured Technicolor, Yves Klein-blue skies, snowcapped peaks, and roads that lead nowhere but farther away. I wake up wanting nothing more than to travel along them.
The Swimmer Page 16
