The Swimmer

by Joakim Zander

  There’s something in the air. Something more than the snow and the storm. I turn the binoculars toward the cliffs where the old man landed his boat effortlessly in the middle of the worst of it. I see only its stern. The rest lies behind the rocks. But there’s something more. A shadow, a silhouette. Pontoons or a hull. Maybe another boat? Perhaps our enemies are already here?

  My pulse quickens. I lie flat and slide along the cliff, away from the cabin. Hugging the machine gun with my right hand, I brush away the wet snow. Somewhere on the rocks, I hear the sound of a boat colliding with the granite. Hear someone shout twice. Like a bird crying through the storm.

  I slither in a circle. If our enemies are already here, they too will be following the progress of this boat. Waiting to see what the unpredictable will mean for them. The small island is smooth and without mercy. Only a few stones, some shrubs, offer protection. I point my night-vision binoculars in the direction the sound came from. I see the boat, battered by the waves. Above it a figure is struggling to get up the cliff. Someone is climbing and slipping in the slushy snow.

  ‘Who are you?’ I whisper to myself.

  The man grabs hold, pushing himself up from the waterline, up to safety. Lies flat on the mountain, perhaps catching his breath. He looks soaked. Frozen. Shipwrecked. After a moment, he turns his face upward and seems to stiffen. He’s only about twenty yards away from me. What can he see that I can’t? I move my binoculars up along the smooth rock. A couple of shrubs. A crevice in the rock. A movement, several movements. My hand cramps around the rifle.

  Someone detaches himself from the shadows. A black figure. A hood over his head. Bent by the wind but with a gun at his shoulder. Behind him, another figure. No more? There must be another group.

  But right now there are only two. That’s all I know. And a third, an unknown. Is this my chance? The only thing I have is the element of surprise. Were it not for the man from the boat, they’d have taken us inside the cabin. How do I make the best use of this chance? The never-ending estimations. Calculations. The probability.

  I pull the gun closer. Prop it up against my shoulder. It’s been a long time since I found myself in a situation like this. I exhale. Blink to see more clearly in the snow. In front of me the black-clad man raises his weapon, pointing at the figure lying flat, helpless, on the cliff. The sound of the shot bounces off the rocks and disappears into the storm, into the snow.

  74

  December 23, 2013

  Sankt Anna’s Outer Archipelago, Sweden

  George closed his eyes. Laid his head against the rock, felt its cold wetness against his frozen cheek. Felt the snow swirling over him. It had all been in vain. Everything. It was too late.

  ‘Dear God,’ he whispered. ‘Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me.’

  He saw Klara’s face in front of him. Saw Kirsten’s broken cheekbone and nose. Why hadn’t he acted sooner? From the corner of his eye he saw Josh get up and move toward him. The gun against his shoulder. Josh wouldn’t make the same mistake as Kirsten.

  ‘So you escaped the house?’ said Josh. ‘Unbelievable. I didn’t think you had it in you. What did you do with Kirsten?’

  George said nothing. He barely even heard Josh’s voice. Nothing mattered anymore. Nothing.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Josh. ‘We don’t have time for this right now. Bye, bye, George.’

  The sound of the shot. Strangely muffled by the storm. Torn by the wind. There was a flash in front of George’s eyes. He waited for the pain. Waited for the light, the calm. For the world to cease to exist.

  But the only thing he heard was the storm. All he felt was the snow against one cheek and the wet cliff against the other. Confused, he opened his eyes and turned his head toward Josh. But Josh wasn’t there.

  Instead, a body lay on the cliff. Something dark seemed to be leaking out of its head onto the wet snow. Blood. The second black-clad person had thrown himself into the cover of the precipice, where they must have been hiding when George climbed over the cliff. The man was holding his hand to one ear and screaming something. Maybe he was making radio contact with Reiper.

  What had happened? Someone else had fired the shot. George blinked his eyes, got up on all fours, rolled to the side. The world came to life around him.

  The other man stood with his back to George, looking up toward the island, over the edge of the cliff. George fumbled around in the pocket of his oilskin coat. Finally he got hold of the gun. His hand was so cold he could barely move his fingers, and he had to force them around the silencer on Kirsten’s gun. It got stuck in the lining and George pulled so hard that part of it tore and came out with the gun. He fumbled with the gun, dropped it on the cliff, but grabbed hold of it again before it slid down into the waves. It felt big and clumsy in his hands. Surreal. Everything felt surreal.

  In the darkness, George only sensed where the other man was, although he couldn’t be more than thirty feet away. Who was it? Chuck? Sean? Those weren’t their real names. The man seemed to turn his head, as unsure as George was about what had happened. The pistol was heavy in George’s hands. He was lying on his stomach and his fingers were frozen as they held up the pistol, aiming it at the dark silhouette. He forced away all thoughts of guilt, or consequences. Focused on survival. Only that. And then he pulled the trigger.

  One, two, three barking shots. Barely audible in the storm. The man screamed, slumped behind the stone, behind the low bush.

  Shaking with cold and shock, George crept up the hill. He made a wide arc around the stone the man lay behind. Up toward the little cabin.

  75

  December 23, 2013

  Sankt Anna’s Outer Archipelago, Sweden

  In the end it comes down to chance. The banality of battle. I sit on my haunches. Raise my night-vision binoculars toward the rocks. See the body in the snow. See the man from the sea lying on the cliff, fire a gun, get up on his knees. He’s armed. Friend or foe. Chance. I get up, but keep my back arched, make myself small. I can’t let him make it to the cottage. Can’t take the risk. I take a few quick steps. Worry makes me careless.

  I know before I feel the pain. Like I always know. Like I have always known. That bonds are deadly. That it’s not the lies, but the truth that threatens our existence. Then suddenly the pain. Somewhere in the stomach region. Somewhere in the back. Intense and completely deadly. And I slip in the snow on the rocks. Spin and fall. Then pain again. In my shoulder, in my hand. Time ceases.

  This is how it ends.

  I lie on my back. The snow falls on my face. I open my eyes and see his shadow, crouching beside me. The pale scar on his cheek glows in the dark. The rifle rests on his lap. He doesn’t even look surprised.

  ‘I thought they gave you a desk job?’ he says.

  I don’t say anything. Feel the blood filling my mouth. Spit it out to the side. I knew it was him. Even though Susan didn’t want to say his name, one of his names. We look at each other. We are still in Kurdistan, Afghanistan. This is how it ends.

  ‘Susan sent you?’ he asks.

  I don’t say anything.

  ‘You shot one of my men,’ he says.

  Nothing left to lose. Nothing to gain. I nod. Spit blood, but my mouth refills. I let it run over my lips.

  ‘It didn’t need to be this way,’ I say.

  My voice is muffled, wheezy, so full of blood and death that I can hardly understand myself. But he’s used to listening to dying confessions. He leans closer.

  ‘What way?’ he says.

  My body is so heavy. So heavy that it falls through the snow, through the cliff. At the same time it’s so light. So light that when I close my eyes, I swirl upward, becoming part of the snow, the storm. Disappearing. Lighter than the flakes, lighter than the wind. A body of helium. A body of lead. Above the clouds, the sky is pale blue. At every crossroads, I chose to run. And now it’s too late. There’s nothing left that can save my soul.

  When I open my eyes, he’s starting to stand up. He is enormo
us in the darkness. I’m insignificant now. Not part of his mission. A coincidence. Something unpredictable that he’s handled and then left behind. I cough. Forcing the words through the blood.

  ‘She doesn’t have to die.’

  It takes superhuman effort. I’m drowning in my own blood. Somewhere far away, I hear his voice.

  ‘You haven’t changed,’ he says. ‘That was always your problem. Your bleeding heart.’

  I force my head to the side to be able to see him. It’s so incredibly difficult to open my eyes. At the same moment, I hear a crack. Dull and distinct like a controlled explosion. In a strange, cold light, I see him lift off the ground. Watch him fly, momentarily weightlessly, through the storm. I see him land in the snow. Spread out, still.

  76

  December 23, 2013

  Sankt Anna’s Outer Archipelago, Sweden

  ‘Put these rain clothes on,’ said Klara.

  From a worn wooden crate standing just inside the door, she pulled a bundle of old turpentine-scented, yellow rubber and threw it to Gabriella. Klara had already put on some boots and a pair of rubber pants so big they made her look like a child. Gabriella unwrapped the bundle and started pulling on a pair of worn pants.

  ‘It’s definitely a boat,’ said Klara’s grandfather.

  Despite the American’s advice, he was standing on his knees, peering out the window, into the night. The sound of the approaching boat grew louder.

  ‘Well I’ll be damned, what sorta lunatic would come in with the wind at his aft.’

  Grandpa turned and scrutinized Klara, who was buttoning up her raincoat, the hood already pulled down far over her forehead.

  ‘What do you have in mind, Klara?’ he said. ‘You’re not gonna run after our American friend, are you?’

  Klara adjusted the sleeves of her coat. When she was satisfied, she bent down and opened the cardboard box of shotgun shells. She took out a handful and stuffed them into her pockets.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘But it’s good to be prepared. We need to be ready to get out of here on short notice.’

  She cracked open the shotgun and checked to see that it was still loaded. Then she turned to her grandfather and hesitated for a second.

  ‘Grandpa,’ she said at last. ‘You said you were absolutely certain that this man knew my mother.’

  Klara’s grandfather turned to her. He looked tired. Outside, the sound of the engine was growing louder and louder.

  ‘What was it that made you so sure?’

  Before her grandpa could reply they heard a crashing, grinding sound below the house. Her grandfather turned back toward the window.

  ‘What was that?’ whispered Gabriella.

  ‘The boat’s gone aground on those rocks,’ said Klara’s grandfather.

  Reflexively, Gabriella moved toward the window, crouching. She could just make out the snow falling, the contours of the nearest bushes. A cliff. There—a movement down by the waterline. But maybe it was her imagination. The subsiding wind was still howling. You could hear the sound of the boat crashing against the cliff. And maybe, in the distance, a voice. Before Gabriella could say anything, a muffled bang cut through the storm.

  ‘What was that?’ she said.

  Somewhere a voice screamed and fell silent. Gabriella turned to Klara. But all she saw was the front door slamming shut.

  77

  December 23, 2013

  Sankt Anna’s Outer Archipelago, Sweden

  The wind had dropped slightly. And the snowfall had increased. Klara stood with her back against the cabin wall. The shotgun, cold in her hands. Thoughts racing as fast as her heart. What was happening? She gently lifted the small flashlight she had found in the kitchen.

  That was when she heard it. Dampened by wind and snow: rapid footsteps. Then a scraping and a thud. As if someone ran and then stumbled and fell on the rock. She sank down on one knee. The shotgun against her shoulder. Both the flashlight and barrel in her left hand. Someone was coughing, wheezing, spitting. Something that sounded like a voice. Perhaps ten yards away. Not farther. On the other side of the house. Then another voice. Labored, whispering. Klara exhaled. Inhaled. It was all or nothing.

  She turned on the flashlight and spun around the corner of the cabin. Still squatting, with her left knee on the snow, on the cliff. The butt of the rifle against her shoulder. The barrel and the beam from the flashlight pointing straight toward the place where the sounds were coming from. Time stood still.

  The light caught three people. Two men dressed in black. One was squatting and one was standing up. On the ground lay the American. Dark blood on white snow.

  Someone said something. All sounds seemed delayed, drawn out, impossible to connect or make sense of. The standing man held up a hand, blinded by the light from the flashlight. Everything moved slowly, as if under water. She focused on the man who was squatting beside the American. His face. The scar. The gray hair hidden under a black cap. Eyes that glittered in the light.

  It took an eternity for the man with the scar to point the muzzle of his small machine gun at her. An eternity for the other man to raise his weapon. Klara squeezed the trigger and felt the recoil push her backward.

  Then the world returned to normal speed. The bang from the gun was deafening. The man with the scar was thrown backward onto the snow-spotted rock and landed awkwardly at the foot of a barren and lone little juniper.

  Behind her Klara heard a mechanical coughing. Three times, four, five. Then a clicking sound. When she turned to point the flashlight in that direction, she saw the man who had just been standing up lying on his back in the snow. Klara heard ragged breathing somewhere behind her. A faint moaning. Feet staggering over snow and rock. She turned cautiously in the direction of the sound, back toward the cabin. She ran the flashlight along the side of the cabin until the light finally landed on a strange apparition. The man was tall and slim. His face was full of wounds and peeling tape. His lips were blue with cold. In his hand he held a dark gray gun with a long cylinder attached to it. The man dropped the gun in the snow and slumped against the wall. Closed his eyes.

  Klara fumbled with the shotgun, unsure where she should point it.

  ‘Who are you?’ she said.

  She turned the shotgun on the man, took aim, hesitated. She leaned forward. There was something familiar about that broken face.

  She took a step toward him. The man held up his hands in defense.

  ‘George,’ he said. ‘George Lööw.’

  Klara stopped, shaking her head. Her ears were ringing from the shot. The wind whipped the snow into her face. George Lööw? Was that really what he’d said?

  ‘Where the hell did you come from?’ she said.

  George just shrugged and stared dumbly in front of him. Klara hesitated and turned to the American lying in the snow.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she said to George while moving toward the American.

  ‘I’m okay. I think.’

  George’s voice was hollow.

  Klara leaned over the American, let the light from her flashlight move across his body. There was blood everywhere, too much blood. His eyes were closed but his lips were moving, barely. Blood was running out of the corner of his mouth. Klara put her ear to his mouth, smelled the scent of blood, the stench of death.

  ‘I couldn’t protect you.’

  The man’s voice was so weak, so thick.

  ‘Don’t give them what they want.’

  He fell silent. Closed his eyes and opened them again. Klara was quiet. Stroking him gently, hesitantly on his forehead.

  ‘Don’t give them what they want. You can’t trust them.’

  Klara struggled to stay upright, fought to remain in control of her body. She felt her hands shaking and shivering, tears welling up in her eyes.

  ‘It’ll be okay.’

  It was all she could say. It meant nothing. Nothing was going to be okay.

  Suddenly the American opened his eyes wider. Klara felt him struggling
to get up, to lean in closer. His eager voice was so thick with blood and death that Klara couldn’t make out what he was trying to say.

  ‘Ssh,’ she said. ‘Easy, easy…’

  She leaned over him and placed his head back in the snow. She positioned her ear over his mouth, feeling the dryness of his lips against her earlobe.

  ‘There is more,’ he mumbled.

  ‘More of what?’ Klara whispered.

  Blood was bubbling over the American’s lips. He tried to spit and then to swallow.

  ‘Not only…’

  He lay back on cliff and, grappling for strength, closed his eyes.

  ‘Not only torture,’ he mumbled finally. ‘Too much… All this… It’s too much. Killings. Look for something more. Something that… they can’t explain away. Something undeniable.’

  Klara didn’t know what to say. She just held his head, just stroked his cheek. And then he opened his eyes again. Saw right into her, right through her.

  ‘Your mother,’ whispered the American. ‘She loved you. More than anything.’

  Then, only silence. Only the wind. Only snow. Klara took his hand in hers. His knotted fist. Frozen. His mouth opened. His eyes glassy, empty. Klara forced open the fist to hold his hand. Something fell out of his hand into the snow. She fumbled for it. The silver was unexpectedly warm. With frozen fingers she pried open the little locket.

  78

  December 23, 2013

  Sankt Anna’s Outer Archipelago, Sweden

  George sat on the foredeck of the small open boat and looked around. The night was still pitch-black. The storm had died down, but the boat heaved and jumped in the swells. He had only partial memories of how he got here. Impressions, a dream. After his boat crashed against the rocks, he had only scattered, fragmentary recollections of fear and cold. He noted that he had dry clothes on. Two huge blankets over his shoulders and legs. He was still shivering, but not in the uncontrollable way he had before.