He opened the door with the word Hamam on it. He walked down the tiled floor of a corridor and emerged into a large room with a vaulted ceiling and tiled walls. His pulse was still racing, and he could taste blood and adrenaline in his mouth.
Abu Hamsa was lying on one of the stone benches while a sinewy little man massaged his hairy back. When the masseur caught sight of Atif he backed away in horror, holding his hands up. Atif nodded toward the door and the man immediately made himself scarce.
Abu Hamsa sat up.
“You look bloody awful, Atif,” he growled, without seeming particularly surprised.
Atif shrugged his shoulders.
“Eldar?” Abu Hamsa raised his eyebrows.
“He’ll live.” Atif sat down on the next bench.
“That’s just as well. Otherwise I’d have hell to pay,” Abu Hamsa said.
“Why?” Atif picked up a washcloth and wiped the blood from his eyes.
“He’s engaged to my daughter,” Abu Hamsa said.
“Which one, Yasmina?”
“No, no, Yasmina’s at university. Studying to become an engineer. Susanna, she works for me. Looks after my bureaus de change. That’s how she and Eldar . . .” He gestured toward the changing room, then fell silent and looked at Atif.
“You know I can’t just let this pass,” Abu Hamsa went on. “Not even for the sake of old friendship.”
Atif shrugged again.
“Okay, my friend.” Hamsa sighed. “I’m guessing you didn’t come here just so you could beat up my staff. So what is this about?”
Atif spat some bloody saliva toward the drain.
“I want help with something,” he said. “The address of a police officer.”
“You have a very odd way of asking for help, my friend.” Abu Hamsa chuckled. “Explain to me why you think I should even consider such a request.”
“Because I’m proposing a deal. You give me the address, and I give you something in return,” Atif said.
“And what might that be, my friend?” Hamsa smiled. “What can a man who’s as good as dead possibly offer me?”
“I can give you Janus,” Atif said.
FORTY-FOUR
Sarac leaned over the battered old leather armchair. He had spent almost twenty-four hours in the room, with just a short outing to get supplies from the closest 7-Eleven. The packing crates over by the camp-bed had turned out to contain his files. So he had emptied his office himself, just as he had suspected. Probably not long before the crash. Something seemed to have happened, something which had raised the stakes, making him even more paranoid. But what? Was it something to do with the mole Dreyer was hunting, or the threat Wallin had mentioned? Or was it something else entirely? The puzzle he was trying to put together kept growing the whole time. It was well on its way to becoming a five-thousand-piece Ravensburger with no picture to show what it was meant to look like.
He had written his thoughts down on a fresh piece of paper. He had divided everything into columns in a fairly understandable way that might help make things clearer. He certainly hoped so, anyway.
Problem number one: four men had been murdered. Four men who had given him information and whose names were listed on the first page of his encoded notebook. Presumably their names had also been on the missing backup list.
Theory: Whoever killed the men wanted to stop them from revealing something they knew. Something to do with Janus.
Conclusion: The murderer was someone the men knew, or at least were aware of. Someone who had a lot to lose. He believed he had a strong candidate already, Janus himself.
Weakness: The Janus project was top secret, so how could four minor-league informants have known anything that important?
Problem number two: Erik I. Johansson, aka Sarac himself, had access to two foreign bank accounts and secret premises. Up to the day of his accident the accounts had contained large sums of money. A number of small withdrawals had been made from one account, with large in-payments made to the other.
Theory: Erik I. Johansson didn’t exist. He was an alias that Sarac himself used to be able to manage the project. So the accounts were his as well. The small withdrawals were mostly cash payments for the various CIs or used to settle bar and restaurant bills.
Conclusion: Running the Janus operation under a false identity, with murky funding and eventually from external premises, broke every conceivable rule. If it got out he would be fired and would probably end up in prison. So he had chosen to move out from Police Headquarters and turn himself into the solitary scapegoat.
Weakness: There was no obvious weakness here but plenty of questions. If the accounts were his, where was the debit card? And, even more pertinent, where did all the money come from?
Problem number three: Peter Molnar blamed both his stroke and his car crash on extreme stress in combination with drug abuse. And claimed that the confused car journey was part of his breakdown. Dreyer, on the other hand, claimed that he had been on his way to a meeting with the Internal Investigation Department, ready to reveal the name of the mole in Regional Crime, but that someone had stopped him very literally by forcing his car into a concrete wall. Bergh and Wallin seemed to be working along the same lines as well: that someone wanted to see him dead.
Theory: One or more of the men was lying, or withholding important parts of the truth. Possibly even all four of them.
Conclusion: No one could be trusted, they were all trying to manipulate him for their own ends. Even his best friend.
Weakness: Sadly there was no obvious weakness here either.
And finally, where he had ground to a halt:
Problem number four: the same night he suffers his violent accident, a violent gang member, Brian Hansen, is found dead in the passenger seat of his own car in Gamla stan with a nine-millimeter bullet in his head. During the preceding hours someone also empties Erik I. Johansson’s bank accounts of about fourteen million kronor. His own service pistol is locked inside the premises belonging to Erik I. Johansson. The gun is missing a nine-millimeter bullet from the cartridge. And he also has a number of disturbing memories of Hansen’s death, to put it mildly.
Theory: The fact that these three events took place on the same day couldn’t be a coincidence. Nor the gun and the missing bullet. His service pistol had probably been used to kill Brian Hansen.
Conclusion and weakness: Impossible to work out without more information. At least that’s what he tried to convince himself.
The events of Saturday, November 23, all had one common denominator, and this time it wasn’t Janus. He himself knew Hansen, he had access to the gun, the bank accounts, and the premises. It was he who suffered some sort of meltdown, and then, either with or without anyone else’s help, had a violent crash. So what did that mean?
Why did he seem to remember the meeting with Hansen in the car, the shot hitting the back of his head? What had he actually been doing during the hours before the crash? He had been entirely certain that Janus was behind Hansen’s death. But after finding the gun he was no longer so convinced. Could he have murdered someone without realizing it? Or was that precisely what he had done?
He pushed the sheet of paper away and went and stood by the whiteboard.
The laptop had been a disappointment. The browsing history had been deleted, all the document folders were empty, and the desktop showed nothing but a default blue background. The hard drive seemed to have been reformatted, so if there were any secrets left in the computer, they were buried so deep in its memory that he could no longer find them, which felt pretty fucking ironic.
He poked about in the drawers for a bit, more or less at random. Apart from the pistol and bullets, he also found the gun’s belt holster and two other small leather pouches, one containing a spare cartridge and the other a pair of handcuffs. Right at the bottom he also found the little wallet containing his police ID. Why had he left it there? Another question lacking any sort of answer.
He was actually starting to get ca
bin fever. He longed to have someone to talk to. Someone he could trust, someone who—unlike Wallin, Bergh, Molnar, and Dreyer—had no agenda of her own and didn’t manipulate the facts and mix up truth and lies to suit herself.
Someone like Natalie. Sarac realized that he was missing her, while simultaneously feeling guilty about dragging her into this whole business. On one level he was pleased she hadn’t turned up at his apartment. On another he actually felt quite disappointed.
He slipped his ID into his pocket and pulled out the top drawer again. A few loose sheets of paper, a collection of pens, a dog-eared phone book, and, beneath it, a half-full pack of Marlboros. He tapped a couple of the cigarettes out onto the desk to check there was nothing hidden inside the packet. Then he discovered a little red matchbook squeezed between the cellophane and the card. The words Club Babel were printed on the front. He seemed to recognize the name and pulled out the bank statement again. He found a number of payments marked Babel Restaurant, Kungsgatan 30. Fairly large amounts as well.
He pulled out the phone book and tried to find the restaurant’s phone number, but without success. Perhaps the book was too old, and anyway, who used phone books these days when everyone had smartphones?
He thought about the discussion he had had with Molnar, about where he might have chosen to meet Janus. Somewhere that appealed to his ego. Showed how important he was to us. A good restaurant or a club.
• • •
Number 30 Kungsgatan turned out to be one of the pair of tall towers, the one on the north side of the imposing street. The entrance was on one corner of the tower, five stone steps up from the sidewalk of Kungsgatan, and guarded by two enormous statues that seemed to bear the whole of the grand 1920s building on their shoulders.
Once he was inside, Sarac only needed to walk ten feet across the stone floor of the lobby before the sound of the evening traffic faded away. He stopped in front of the elevators and read the sign. He found Club Babel on the sixteenth floor and pressed the button to summon an elevator.
The carpet inside the elevator was thick, and his sneakers sank into it. The restaurant consisted of a long bar and a few chairs, all in art deco style. A weary-looking bartender dressed in a shirt, waistcoat, and sleeve garters was polishing glasses, but otherwise the place was almost empty, except for a few Japanese tourists posing in front of the impressive view over by the big windows.
Sarac sat down on one of the chairs at the bar.
“How can I be of service, sir?” The bartender’s voice and his slightly stiff phrasing made something click inside Sarac’s head.
“I’m a member,” he said, without really knowing why. His voice sounded different. As if he wasn’t quite himself.
“And your name is . . . ?”
“Johansson,” he said. “Erik I. Johansson.”
The man tapped at a screen that was hidden behind the bar.
“Of course,” he said. “I didn’t recognize you in your hat, Mr. Johansson. Welcome back.” The man put a metal token on the bar in front of Sarac and gestured lightly toward a red velvet curtain in the far corner.
Another elevator. This one was smaller, with room for no more than four people. On one wall was a little metal screen with a slot in it, below a small makeup mirror. Sarac put the token in the slot and briefly caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. He noticed that he looked different. It was something about his eyes.
The woman who met him outside the elevator doors was beautiful. Short, dark hair cut in a 1920s style, dark eye makeup, a small headband with feathers in it, and a straight, silk dress that stopped just above her knees. The little catches of her suspenders were faintly visible through the fabric. The spacious premises on the top floor matched her outfit perfectly. A check-patterned floor, with thick rugs here and there. Chrome, leather, and hardwood furniture, whose straight lines were picked up in the square patterns that had been painted on the walls just below the ceiling.
The tall windows faced south and east and showed a magnificent view of Stockholm, only interrupted by the equivalent floor of the south tower some sixty feet away. It was so close that the Roman statuary on its facade was clearly visible.
Roman gods, Sarac thought. Hardly a coincidence.
Just like the floor below, the bar and decor exuded the style of the 1920s, down to the smallest details. It was an art deco fantasy.
“Good evening, Mr. Johansson,” the woman said. “We haven’t seen you here for a while. Your usual table is already taken by another regular client, but of course you’re good friends.”
She gestured toward the far end of the room, where there were a number of separate booths. Sarac walked slowly toward them. He could feel his pulse getting faster. Who was sitting at the table? Could it be the man he was looking for? He glanced once more at the statues outside the windows, thinking about Roman gods.
But for the second time that day he was disappointed. The suited man in the cubicle wasn’t Janus, he was sure of that the moment their eyes met. This man was in his fifties and had long, back-combed gray hair that was thinning on top. A pair of round glasses was perched on the end of his nose, and as Sarac approached he pushed the newspaper he had been reading to one side.
“Ah, there you are, Erik!” The man stood up and held out his hand. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you for weeks, but all I get is your voice mail.” He took off his reading glasses and waved them in the air. “Sit yourself down!”
Sarac nodded and did as the man suggested. He recognized him very well and was searching frantically for a name.
“I was just reading about our new Minister of Justice.” The man moved his hand toward the newspaper. “He’s going to be making some fairly comprehensive proposals, at least if the papers are to be believed. That’s going to make my work more difficult. But fortunately there are ways around most problems, aren’t there, Erik?”
The man smiled, showing a row of chalk-white crowned teeth.
Lawyer, Sarac was thinking. This man was a lawyer, and his name was . . .
“So, how have you been getting on?” the man asked, leaning forward across the table. “As you know, my clients are extremely eager and would like news of your progress.”
Sarac didn’t answer.
“Since we last met the situation has become more tense. Some of their business contacts abroad have chosen to start up an independent investigation. They’ve even sent over an external consultant whose presence has aroused a degree of anxiety.”
He smiled again, the same crocodile smile as before.
“But I’ve told my clients to calm down. Assured them that you’ll be able to deliver what they want.”
Sarac nodded stiffly. He was trying to take in what the man was saying at the same time that his brain was working at top gear.
“So, how is it going?” the man said, then raised his hands. “I mean, of course I don’t want to know any details, only anything that might serve to reassure my clients a little. Make them feel comfortable about what was, after all, a fairly considerable investment.”
“Fine,” Sarac muttered. “Well . . .” He looked around, then took a deep breath.
“You see, I haven’t really . . .” He pulled his hat off and pointed at the plaster on his head. “I was involved in an accident. Things are a little confused.”
The man was looking at him, and all of a sudden he didn’t look so friendly.
“I mean,” Sarac went on. “Could you just remind me about the terms of our agreement?”
The man straightened up slightly. He was staring at Sarac as if he was trying to work out whether he was joking.
“You’re not trying to trick me, are you, Erik?” he finally said. “That would be extremely unwise, considering our previous dealings.”
“No, of course not!” Sarac shook his head. “I just need to get things sorted out a bit.”
He was making an effort to sound convincing. He suddenly discovered a little metal plaque along one edge of the table. Pre
sumably the names of the regulars who had priority at that table. Erik I. Johansson was at the top. Below was another name he had heard Dreyer mention only a day or so before.
Someone up in your department has been selling information to the underworld, David. Everything’s done through an intermediary, a lawyer called Bengt Crispin.
Sarac felt his stomach tighten.
“We’ve been working together for almost a year now, Erik,” Crispin went on. “The results have been most satisfactory up to now.”
Sarac nodded and ventured a smile even though the room seemed to be swaying. The statues on the other side of the street seemed to be hanging in midair, firing accusing stares at him.
He read the ornate lettering once more, trying to absorb what it meant. The true identity of the mole Dreyer was hunting, and whom he had been forcibly recruited to reveal.
“But what we’ve been paying you handsomely for, Erik,” Crispin went on, “is to reveal the true identity of the person behind the code name Janus.”
FORTY-FIVE
“Hello?”
“Good evening, Abu Hamsa. This is Bengt Crispin.”
“Ah, our legal friend, how nice.”
“I thought I should let you know that I have met my contact, just now, in fact. I’m afraid the situation is as I feared. It seems highly likely that he won’t be able to deliver. At least not for the foreseeable future.”
“I see. That’s a great shame.”
“So what do we do now?”
“Well, fortunately we have a plan B. An offer from a new player. Or an old friend, depending on how you choose to look at it.”
“Do I want to know the details?”
“No, Mr. Crispin, I don’t think you do.”
• • •
Sarac remained where he was for a good while after Crispin had left. Drank the drink that had been brought over without his having ordered anything. Then another. One mystery had at least been solved. Now he knew where all the money had come from. Earlier during the evening he had started to suspect that he himself might be a murderer. Now he could add corrupt police officer to the list as well.
MemoRandom Page 29
