The Swimmer

by Joakim Zander

  It took a few seconds for a green light to come on, another few seconds for the door to swing open with a mechanical click. Klara bent forward and peered into the small space.

  A slim nylon bag was the only thing inside the locker. Squatting, she gently pulled it out into the bright light and unzipped it. The bag contained a small, aluminum-colored Apple computer. A MacBook Air. The smallest available. Klara zippered the bag again and closed her eyes for a second. Beautiful, beautiful luck. She stood up and started walking back toward the exit. Something at the periphery of her vision suddenly caught her attention. A movement outside the glass wall separating the rental car counters from the baggage room. She turned her head and caught what was possibly Ponytail’s silhouette.

  ‘Shit,’ she hissed.

  But there was no turning back now. Rock and salt. She pressed her way through a group of travelers checking their bags and backpacks, and kept her eyes fixed on the glass wall. Nothing there. Maybe she’d imagined it. She threw the nylon bag over her shoulder as she walked out of the luggage room. No feelings, she thought. Get up to street level and take a taxi. Call Mahmoud. One thing at a time.

  It was at that moment that she smelt it. At first only faintly. But it was unmistakable. Artificial cherry. American chewing gum. She spun around. And there, only a few feet away from her stood Ponytail.

  She knew instinctively that it was the wrong thing to do, but she couldn’t help herself. Adrenaline rushing through her, she pushed her way through a group of Japanese tourists and ran, panicked, toward the escalators. She didn’t turn around, just ran as fast as she could up the stairs, through the waiting room. Away, away, away.

  41

  December 20, 2013

  Paris, France

  It was nearing rush hour. Both Mahmoud’s taxi and the Golf, a few cars behind them, were stuck in the bumper-to-bumper Parisian Christmas traffic. Mahmoud was trying to hold his stress at bay. There was nothing worse than having no control over your situation, being at the mercy of other people’s choices. In his head he went through his options. He could disappear down into the metro again. In the long run, he’d be able to shake off his pursuers there. But it was a time-consuming task. And he was worried about Klara. Why had he given her the assignment of checking the locker?

  He hadn’t counted on Ponytail from the airport staying behind. His plan had been impulsive. It filled him with anxiety. Maybe they had seen Klara sneaking out of the taxi and regrouped? He tried to call her again, but got an automated message in French. Probably she was busy with the storage locker and hadn’t heard the signal. But he couldn’t help imagining far worse scenarios.

  Mahmoud turned around. The traffic inched forward. The Golf remained about eighty feet behind them. It was time to make a decision. He had to shake off his pursuers and find Klara. Take a chance. It was the only way.

  ‘What street are we on?’ Mahmoud said to the taxi driver.

  The driver turned around and looked at him with his hangdog eyes.

  ‘Rue La Fayette,’ he said.

  ‘Where? Which intersection?’

  ‘Almost at rue de Châteaudun. But in this traffic it’ll take us twenty minutes to get there,’ the driver said.

  He sounded defeated. Mahmoud turned around again. Traffic was at a complete standstill. He glimpsed the Golf behind them. He took out his prepaid phone, dialed three digits, and waited for the signal to go through.

  It took less than seven minutes before Mahmoud heard the sirens of two police motorcycles. He turned around to look out the rear window. They were driving between the gridlocked lanes and stopped a car’s length behind the dark blue Golf. The cabdriver rolled down the window and stuck his head out to see what was going on. Cold air filled the car. Around them bored drivers turned their heads toward the Golf. Mahmoud leaned forward to the taxi driver and tapped him on the shoulder. The man turned around irritably.

  ‘I’m getting out here,’ Mahmoud said.

  He handed a ten-euro bill to the surprised driver.

  ‘Keep the change.’

  Mahmoud glanced over his shoulder. A police officer in graphite blue Kevlar armor had climbed off his motorcycle and was walking calmly, his hand on his gun, toward the Golf.

  This was his chance. Mahmoud opened the door of the taxi and slid gently onto the cracked concrete. The air smelled of exhaust and winter. He crawled among the cars until he got to the sidewalk. The sky was low and gray. As if it hadn’t yet decided what kind of storm to unleash. It must be a little above freezing; rain was almost as likely as snow. Before running down the stairs to the metro station Cadet, he turned around one last time. Traffic was moving, but the Golf was still there, with its hazard lights flashing. The police had forced Cargo Pants and his driver out on the street, and they seemed to be arguing heatedly. Cargo Pants craned his neck, trying to keep an eye on the taxi. Had he seen Mahmoud leaving it? It didn’t matter, the Americans would have their hands full for a few minutes convincing the police that they hadn’t threatened another vehicle with a gun. By the time they succeeded, it would be too late. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Klara.

  42

  December 20, 2013

  Paris, France

  Klara was shaking from the cold, though she’d put her coat on again when she’d come down into the metro. She pushed her hands deep into her pockets and looked around for the hundredth time. She’d really thought it was over for a moment, when she’d met those eyes at the Gare du Nord. That it was the end. The fear she’d felt. The panic. Because the girl with the ponytail had seen her too. But there’d been too many people between them, and Ponytail hadn’t been able to catch up with Klara, who had taken the escalator two steps at a time, and ended up in the transit hall. Without turning around, she’d flung herself down the nearest metro stairs, jumped onto the first train that pulled into the station, and ridden it to the end of the line. But it had been a close call. Far, far too close.

  ‘You look stressed, Klara,’ Mahmoud said. ‘Are you okay?’

  Klara winced when she felt Mahmoud’s cold hand against her cheek.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ she said.

  They had arranged to meet fifteen minutes ago. A quarter of an hour of paranoia and torment. Mahmoud smiled slightly, his eyes searching the station.

  ‘I’ve been here a while,’ he said. ‘Thought I’d scan the surroundings before I showed myself.’

  ‘What?’ Klara said. ‘You let me stand around like some fucking bait while you figured out if it was safe enough?’

  Klara felt her stress turn to annoyance. Who the hell did he think he was? But Mahmoud just shrugged.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘It would have been better to meet somewhere else if things didn’t look good.’

  His brown, cool eyes scanned the station once again. There was an impatience in his expression that made him seem arrogant, almost callous, but he was neither. He’d just moved on to the next page. Always one step, one move ahead. That was what had attracted her to him in the beginning, and what had also sometimes frustrated her.

  ‘Was there anything in the locker?’ he said.

  Klara raised her arm to show him the bag hanging over her shoulder. She patted it and nodded.

  ‘A computer,’ she said. ‘It didn’t go entirely smoothly.’

  She told him about Ponytail and her escape in the station. Mahmoud nodded calmly.

  ‘I’m sorry that you got involved in all of this,’ he said.

  Klara just nodded.

  ‘Oh well,’ she said at last. ‘I guess it’s my own fault. How did you escape them, anyway?’

  Mahmoud smiled proudly.

  ‘I called the police. Said I saw someone waving a gun in a dark blue Golf. It took five minutes for the cops to get there. They couldn’t very well chase after me then. I’m a bloody genius.’

  Klara glanced at him. For the first time, he looked as she remembered him. Full of initiative and mischievous,
charming arrogance.

  ‘So you have a plan?’ Mahmoud said.

  Klara hadn’t wanted to tell him over the phone. It felt like it would be easier to explain it to Mahmoud face-to-face. She grabbed his arm gently and started to guide him out of the station. Out on the street big, wet snowflakes, lit by the yellow streetlights, were falling and melting before touching the ground.

  ‘Okay, so this is the thing,’ she began. ‘I have a boyfriend in Paris. Or not really a boyfriend, but something like that. A guy. Or a man, I guess.’

  Mahmoud smiled an annoyingly ironic smile and looked away.

  ‘Not a guy, but a man? I get it. How old is he?’

  Klara pretended not to notice.

  ‘He lives on Victor Hugo. Maybe he can help us.’

  ‘Maybe?’ Mahmoud said.

  A concerned, surprised wrinkle in his forehead.

  ‘Yes. He’s home now, I called him. Alone,’ she added.

  ‘Alone?’ Mahmoud said.

  He turned toward her. There was a sympathetic note in his voice now. His eyes were no longer cool, but tender. Soft darts from the past. Promises whispered at the Carolina Rediviva library, on wet bridges over the Fyris river at dawn, after sleepless nights, two bodies side by side on a narrow bed in a run-down dorm room. She’d forgotten how she’d loved Mahmoud. He was the only man she’d ever loved. How could you forget something like that? She turned her face up and felt the snowflakes landing like tears on her cheeks.

  ‘He’s married,’ she said. ‘And has a daughter.’

  She regretted saying it. It felt too hard to explain. She didn’t know what words to use to describe what had happened in Cyril’s apartment that morning. It already felt distant, unreal. But Mahmoud just nodded.

  ‘And how do you think he can help us?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe we can sleep there tonight. Check the computer that was in Lindman’s locker? I don’t know. If you have a better plan just say so. But our relationship isn’t really—how should I put this—official?’

  ‘Can we trust him? I mean it’s a pretty big deal to waltz in with your ex, the murder suspect.’

  ‘We’ve been discreet,’ Klara said.

  She shook her head, trying to clear her mind, trying to make everything fall into place.

  ‘I’d begun to trust him. Until I found a photo of him with his family this morning. And now I guess it’s more in his interest that our relationship doesn’t come out than in mine.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ Mahmoud said. ‘You found out this morning that he had a family?’

  Klara nodded. She felt so small, so stupid and naive. Mahmoud said nothing but gently put his arm around her, pulled her close. Klara felt the heat of him through the snow, through their clothes and jackets.

  ‘I’m sorry, Klara,’ he said. ‘Really sorry. But yes, we have to take a look at this computer and calm down. Do you think you could manage going to his place?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Absolutely. Protecting a wanted ex-boyfriend with a, well… complicated sexual orientation is the least you can expect from a conservative politician, right?’

  43

  December 20, 2013

  Brussels, Belgium

  George took one last bite of his chicken vindaloo and put the plastic fork down in the foil box with a grimace, after which he stuffed a dry piece of naan bread into his mouth and chewed thoroughly, trying to minimize the paralyzing heat. Couldn’t Reiper and his people at least order in some proper food? He felt tired and fat. How long had it been since he’d gone to the gym?

  And why couldn’t he just go home? Instead they were making him book travel arrangements and hotel rooms in Paris. Like some fucking secretary. Pointless to ask what the hell was going on. Josh, the fucking sociopath, just smiled his superior smile and said things worked on a need-to-know basis. What an ass he was, Josh.

  And no one from Merchant & Taylor would return his calls. Soon it would be the weekend. Not very likely he’d hear from Appleby then. This was fucking insane. He’d put his soul into becoming someone at that company. Had worked his ass off for the first time in his life. He was a rising talent, a man for the big customers, for broad strategies. Hadn’t Appleby himself said as much over that amazing dinner at Comme chez Soi? Was it possible that had happened only yesterday? Now he felt completely disconnected. Dismissed. Not even worthy of having his calls returned. He considered firing off another message to Appleby but stopped himself. He didn’t want to appear desperate.

  Instead he got up to turn on the ceiling light in the little maid’s room they’d put him in. The remains of the Indian takeout disgusted him, the scent of cumin and chili making him nauseated. He crumpled up the foil trays and shoved them into the thin plastic bag Josh had given him a half hour ago. There had to be a garbage can in the kitchen.

  The hall outside his room was dark, and George couldn’t find a light switch. Inside the living room, he heard muffled, mumbling voices. A narrow streak of light streamed out under the closed door. With the bag still in his hand, George crept across the floor. He held his breath as the floor swayed and creaked under him. Finally, he put his ear gently against the door.

  ‘And everyone knows the game plan? Code Black. We leave no trace. No survivors. That has to be absolutely clear. We can’t afford any more mistakes.’

  It was Reiper’s voice, dry and matter-of-fact. George thought for a second he might fall backward, might faint. It felt like the oxygen in the air around him had thinned out, and he had to fight to breathe.

  No survivors.

  He couldn’t believe he’d heard correctly. He backed away from the door.

  No survivors.

  He tripped back into the maid’s room, dropped the plastic bag. A disgusting sludge of orange chicken vindaloo oozed onto the floor. With trembling hands, he fished his wallet out of the inside pocket of his jacket. Dug with his fingers in one of the soft calfskin pockets. Emergency rations. He grabbed the small bag. Poured the cocaine onto the computer desk with trembling fingers and drew it up his nose with a few quick snorts. Closed his eyes and felt himself almost lift off of the chair.

  No survivors.

  44

  December 20, 2013

  Paris, France

  The five-story building on Avenue Victor Hugo, number 161 in the sixteenth arrondissement, was everything Mahmoud had always expected of Paris. A white plastered facade with tall, mullioned windows and green shutters. The whole neighborhood seemed to consist of old money and well-tended flower boxes. Klara rang the little bell next to the front door.

  ‘It’s me,’ she said in English when it crackled.

  The door opened with a growling sound, and they stepped into an echoing stairwell. Frescoes depicting flowers and garlands covered the walls. A warm light streamed down from an enormous light fixture on the ceiling. Klara went over to the ancient elevator and pressed the button.

  ‘Not the elevator,’ Mahmoud said.

  He pointed toward the stairs.

  ‘I want to make sure that no one is waiting for us on our way up,’ he whispered.

  Klara nodded in reply.

  Cyril lived on the top floor of the house. They climbed briskly up the stairs without talking to each other. Cyril’s door was ajar. Mahmoud looked at Klara, who shrugged and attempted an unconvincing smile. Just as she was turning toward the door to push it open, her cell phone beeped. Two distinct beeps. The classic signal for receiving text messages. Mahmoud couldn’t believe his ears.

  ‘What the hell,’ he hissed. ‘You haven’t turned off your phone?’

  He felt the panic come rushing in.

  ‘Have you been using it since we got here?’

  Klara’s face was pale as she stuck her hand in her purse to fish out her phone.

  ‘I just had to get Cyril’s number. But I called from a pay phone. I must have forgotten to turn it off.’

  She looked terrified.

  ‘Have they been able to follow
us now?’

  ‘No idea,’ Mahmoud said. ‘But we can’t afford this.’

  They were interrupted by the door being opened. Cyril stood in front of them, impeccably dressed in well-tailored chinos and a Ralph Lauren shirt. His hair was damp, as if he’d just come out of the shower.

  But it only took Mahmoud one quick look at his face to know something was terribly wrong. He was pale and his eyes kept roaming toward the stairs. He obviously didn’t know what to do with his hands. At first he held them out toward Klara, only to withdraw them. He tried putting his left hand in his pocket and took it out again. This was no longer a young, promising French politician standing in front of them, but a broken man.

  ‘Klara,’ he said and tried a shaky smile. ‘What are you doing here? You were so mysterious on the phone. Who’s your friend?’

  Mahmoud turned toward Klara, who hadn’t answered. She was reading something on her cell phone. Her eyes were narrow.

  ‘Klara,’ Cyril said again. ‘Come in, don’t stand out there for God’s sake.’

  Klara slowly turned her eyes from her phone to Cyril. It took her a second before she opened her mouth to speak.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she said at last.

  Her eyes were empty, bottomless, all emotions completely erased. Mahmoud knew that look. He’d seen it only once in his life. Three years ago at Arlanda airport. Just before Klara had picked up her bags and gone to check in without turning around.

  ‘What have you done, Cyril?’ she said.

  Cyril swallowed. Instinctively, Mahmoud almost felt sorry for him. He was obviously not accustomed to being at such a complete disadvantage.

  ‘Klara! You don’t understand! They said you were being held prisoner by a terrorist, and that I should contact them if you came here.’

  Klara shook her head but didn’t release Cyril’s gaze.

  ‘They said they had photographs, sound recordings. Of you and me. That they’d filmed us together in your apartment. They’d release them if I didn’t cooperate. Klara, you have to understand? You always knew what we had was temporary? I have a family, a child. You must have understood that?’