Grip didn’t mind offering her crumbs about his own past. Unlike Friedman, who’d grown up traveling the entire continent, he hadn’t left the low buildings of his small town until adolescence. No damn pineapples, maybe a few kronor a row from weeding carrots one summer for a stingy farmer. She had seen volcanic lava run into the sea; he had sat in the summer cottage, gazing at the warm glow of the cast-iron stove. When she talked about swimming in the sea, he told her about swimming alone in a pond one August night. Her lacrosse, his soccer. Two seasons in Division I. A knee injury, no big deal, but so ended his dreams.
Then Friedman asked about his family. He had two older sisters, and Friedman amused herself trying to pronounce their names. Both sisters were married, unlike him.
By the time they landed, Grip had barely managed to doze off a few times, and it was only as they were taxiing that he actually fell asleep.
He woke to Friedman commanding: “Come on!” She was already standing, her hair brushed and collected behind her neck again. Three-piece suits from the rear cabin passed behind her.
“Where are we?” asked Grip. The cabin light stung his eyes.
“California.”
Lacking the energy to ask for details, he leaned over to tie his shoes.
Outside the plane, a car was waiting. A thin young man in a US Navy uniform drove them through a deserted area of an airport. The buildings were tall boxes painted white. There were few doors, and even fewer windows. The brightly lit buildings stood out in sharp contrast to the black night around them, like a labyrinth in a computer game. Above an open hangar, where lights washed over some planes, were tall black letters: WELCOME TO NAS NORTH ISLAND.
“North Island?” said Grip.
“Yes,” said Friedman. “North Island, Coronado, California—we’re in San Diego.”
Grip humphed in response.
They were driven to a hotel complex, dark and unmarked. In the parking lot, where there were a few cars, a man came out and gave them each a set of keys. Their young driver insisted on dragging their bags up the stairs. He refused to accept a tip when Grip stood like a fool with a few dollar bills fanned in his hand. Friedman hadn’t even tried.
“See you tomorrow,” she said simply and disappeared to her room.
Grip nodded, looked at his watch. He’d set it to New York time, but now he wasn’t sure of the time difference or of how long they’d been in the air. He couldn’t work it out—he’d spent too many hours in the plane’s timelessness. He remained in limbo.
As he entered the room, he was hit by the cold of the air-conditioning. The TV was turned to CNN with no sound: a shouting mob, a news anchor, American soldiers. A corner of the screen showed a clock at half past ten, but nothing to identify the part of the world where that applied. Grip turned off the television, stripped naked, and pulled out the too-tight sheets. He fell asleep immediately.
Although his body didn’t know it, outside the window it was morning. He saw some joggers; the few cars that went by seemed to drive slowly. From brochures in the hotel room’s leather folder, Grip concluded he was inside the gates of a naval base. Was that important? He wasn’t sure.
“Do you scuba dive?” Friedman had asked during the flight. “What do you like to do in New York? Where in New York do you usually stay?” There was a folder on him that the FBI didn’t want him to see. What the hell was he doing in California?
There had to be an Internet computer down in the lobby. For a moment, he thought about sending an e-mail to the Boss, a sign of life, at least a line saying he’d left New York. But that was not what the Boss wanted. No official e-mail from a naval base in California—at most, a few pencil notes.
After breakfast, which he ate with Friedman under an umbrella at the base’s golf club, she said, “We leave in an hour.”
“Into town, or . . .”
“Make sure you bring your bags.”
“Should I wear a blindfold?”
“Just allow yourself to be patient.” Friedman smiled.
It was the reverse car ride, back to the base airport. Small military jets flew in wide circles, practicing takeoffs and landings; he heard helicopters but didn’t see them. Their car had stopped on the tarmac where a large plane was being loaded. It had military markings.
“Another flight,” said Friedman while Grip watched his bag being carried away.
The sound of her heels echoed on the concrete. A fresh breeze blew in from the sea. Grip was left standing there. An endless trip, just because of some note scribbled on a piece of paper. So far not a single word about Topeka, instead all those little questions about New York. He’d entered the States as a tourist, anonymous because others wanted it that way. Friedman said that she’d taken care of the hotel bill when he asked, and it was her card that had paid for breakfast. Just like at the Korean restaurant the day before. Nowhere had his presence been noted, not since his passport was stamped in at Newark.
Now a new flight raised the stakes—this time without so much as a destination. Who was busy deceiving whom?
It made him hesitate, at least for a second. But then he thought, the Boss had asked him to do this, after all.
“Just a stone in my shoe,” he said when he caught up with her on the tarmac.
This plane also carried other passengers. When Grip entered the cabin, he noticed that he and Friedman were the only civilians on board. Most wore flight suits with their sleeves rolled up, squadron patches with wings, skulls, and gunslingers on them. They sat together in groups of eight or ten. Loud talk, forced laughter. On the seats behind Grip and Friedman sat a group of military police, all of them armed, but quieter than the aviators.
The engines were started, and the cool air poured in. Among the islands of men with crew cuts, the conversations intensified.
“Did you go home with her?”
“Hell yes.”
Someone applauded.
“And we went out yesterday.”
“Lucky bastard. The whole night?”
A whistle. Someone was being hassled.
“The wife and kids . . .”
“. . . I didn’t call.”
“You never learn, do you?”
Like a ship casting off, in tension and relief, leaving kisses and rubble behind. Warriors on their way.
The plane rose, and a sandy beach appeared for a second out the window, then only water. They headed straight out without changing course. San Diego, Coronado, due west, nothing but ocean.
The nose was lowered, the engines slowed.
“Garcia,” said Friedman. “Diego Garcia, that is our final destination.”
On the map in Grip’s pocket almanac, it was just a dot with a name. They were headed for an atoll in the Indian Ocean.
CHAPTER 8
Weejay’s, Thailand
Second week of January 2005
IT WAS INEVITABLE, THE ADDITION of Reza Khan. The first time they saw him, he was standing by the bar, shouting. Carrying a large backpack and various bulging bags, he had walked all the way from the village. The free glass of juice did not calm him down. He swore that he would walk all the way back just to repaint the sign with the true distance.
He threw all his bags in a pile and then, like everyone else, he stayed.
In the evenings he was the one who spoke to everybody under the palm-leaf roof. Mornings he slept away in his bungalow, called it meditation. He was generous and bought people drinks but himself never drank anything other than Coca-Cola. If someone offered something stronger, Reza raised his hand and said, “Sorry—Muslim.”
“Is he gay?” whispered Vladislav to N. after a few days. Reza’s bleached blond hair stood straight as a brush. He looked like a mad samurai and wore tight shirts. Yet no one doubted him when he said he was Pakistani, with his dark skin and coal-black eyes. He said he couldn’t remember when he had last been at home in Peshawar.
“So,” asked Vladislav straight out, “the bleached hair, what’s it good for?”
Reza�
��s laugh was short as a cough. “I was tired of all the attention at airports.”
Vladislav looked puzzled.
“What my kind suffers at border crossings.”
“Your kind?”
“My type, yes,” replied Reza, tapping his finger on the glass. “We Muslims.” He nodded slowly a few times, as if he were speaking to a child.
“Did it work?” asked Vladislav, pointing to his hair.
Reza gazed at him. “Not so far.”
“I’d say it looks fucking awful.”
Just as Reza was about to hit back, a man at the bar muttered, “Idiot,” behind Vladislav’s back.
Reza rose up and half screamed, “Say that again!”
Everyone at Weejay’s froze. The man, who was more than a head taller than Reza, recoiled slightly when the Pakistani jumped up and stood right in front of him. When his smiling lips began to apologize, Reza snapped, “Shut up! This is a matter between me and the Czech there.”
He turned back, took his Coke from the counter, drank, and shook the glass so that the ice sounded like a rattlesnake before saying to Vladislav, “You are the idiot, but at least you do not think I will cut your throat. Not like that Yank there, who looks like he watched too much Al-Jazeera.” He pointed at the man at the bar, who carelessly poked in the sand with his cane.
One morning Vladislav walked up with an old shotgun over his shoulder.
“Finish up those eggs,” he said to N., who had just been served breakfast. “I have organized everything. We’re going to have some fun.” N. had no idea what he was talking about. “In the meantime, I’ll get Mary.”
N. ate quickly, and was just swallowing the last of his coffee when Vladislav returned with Mary in tow. She carried a folding deck chair in one hand and a paperback in the other. They brought along Reza as well—Vladislav had pounded on his door until he gave in and got up.
Besides the gun, Vladislav had brought a few boxes of cartridges, a carton of clay pigeons, and an improvised device for throwing them. They divided the things among themselves and set off down the beach. It took them half an hour to get beyond the headland Vladislav had indicated.
As soon as he said, “This is good,” Mary dropped her chair and opened her book. The strip of sand was narrow, and she sat in the shadows of the palms so that they would fan her in the breeze.
Vladislav gave quick instructions to the other two and then loaded the double-barreled gun and fired the first shots. N., taking charge of the thrower, hurled the clay pigeons over the water. It took him a couple of tries to master the technique. Vladislav reloaded, and when N. managed to get the pigeons to make a wide arc through the air, they all came down in a shower of black chips. Four hits in a row, and then Vladislav handed over his gun to Reza. A throw, a shot, a single splash in the water—it went like that a few times before Reza began taking Vladislav’s advice seriously. At the first hit, he raised his arms and cheered. Mary looked up from her book. A couple of hits, and then it was N.’s turn. The hits came fast; he had listened to the advice. Reza wasn’t interested in throwing pigeons, but instead stood and fiddled impatiently with a few cartridges while he waited. Vladislav did the throwing and gave commentary.
N. felt satisfied, hitting at least every other, and he let Reza and Vladislav take turns with the rest of the ammunition.
Reza couldn’t get enough. He crouched with his gun as if wanting to pounce with every shot.
“Did you ever get more than two in a row?” He grinned at N. when he did it. Vladislav was silent when he shot, just nodding sometimes when he got a hit. Reza imitated his way of reloading the gun with a violent jerk, so that the empty cases flew. N. hurled clay pigeons until his arm hurt—throw, shot, throw, shot.
A flock of pelicans came flying along the beach. Reza and N. watched them, while Vladislav reloaded. They glided over the beach at the edge of the palm forest. Mary put the book in her lap and stretched her back.
“Coming right at you,” she said unexpectedly.
Reza looked at her, puzzled.
“Well, why not?” she continued. The pelicans glided, without moving their wings at all.
Vladislav caught on immediately and fired two shots. He dropped the first two birds, then reloaded quickly. He passed his gun over to Reza. “Here!”
Reza licked his lips hesitantly. The birds flapped but stayed in a line, and then he fired. His first shot hit nothing, and the pelicans veered off in different directions. After the second shot was fired, a bird in the middle of the line winced and tumbled down in a spiral through the air. It landed in the sand a few meters behind Mary. She watched as it awkwardly flapped one wing, making it turn in a circle. Its large beak looked for something to peck.
“You must finish it off,” said Vladislav. He took the gun back from Reza, who stood frozen, and reloaded it.
“Here!”
Reza took the gun again, walked a few steps toward the bird, hesitated. The pelican gave a hoarse cry. Mary remained sitting in her lounge chair, stroking her knee.
Reza’s shot landed short, throwing a cloud of sand over the bird. Without the slightest flinch, Vladislav grabbed the gun by the barrel and walked straight up to the pelican. He stood and watched it for a while as it turned in circles at his feet. He crouched down, looked at the bird, stood up, took a step back—shot.
It was Saturday night. Everybody was treating everybody else to beers and oversize cocktails under the palm-leaf roof. People talked back and forth among the tables, laughing loudly, and some couldn’t resist going out in the darkness for a swim in the sea. Pranks lasted as long into the night as anyone could keep a bar tab. N. made sure he was drunk into oblivion by the time people started talking about the Wave. It was always that way; something would start at one of the tables and spread like a disease. Half-truths and myths took hold. It was unstoppable. N. responded to direct questions with lies: he was traveling alone, had seen nothing. That way, nobody asked about his scars or bandages.
But then the conversation turned to the religious sect and their leaflets. The rejoicing over all the deaths, how the victims had only themselves to blame. Many under the palm-leaf roof had heard talk on the beaches about fights and demonstrations in nearby cities. Just as on evenings before, the mood turned ugly when the subject came up. Voices were raised. Someone spat in anger and threw his glass, which smashed against the side of the bar.
The man who’d called Reza an idiot the other night stood nearby, tossing out comments about Baptist mobs and evangelical wackos, which further fueled the debate. N. hated being reminded but listened to every word. He watched the tall man with the cane and wondered who he was. A young woman said she’d seen on television a group of people chanting, holding signs about sinners and God’s punishment. They were Americans, she said, a Christian sect. This had happened in the States, and apparently was still going on. The news had spread from television to the Internet, and out into the world. And it was here in Thailand that the response had been the most intense. Angry crowds had tried to attack a couple of consulates and the office of some airline, but riot police had protected them.
“Americans,” said a local bartender, collecting bottles, “the authorities here . . . they don’t dare do anything else.”
“I saw police beating people up,” said the woman, her voice cracking, “just to protect America’s interests, even for a bunch of sick religious fanatics.”
The bartender made a gesture that suggested he was ashamed.
A few hours and several glasses later, when spirits were running high again and Vladislav was just about to tell the next table how he escaped from the bus, Mary leaned close to N. and said, “Come.”
“What . . .” He looked around, confused.
“Come on.” She stood up, and he followed her out into the sand.
They headed for Mary’s bungalow, her skirt fluttering around her bare legs. His mouth felt dry, and when they stopped outside her door, he thought she was the more sober one. She held his wrist, a
nd he tried to put his other arm around her shoulder.
“No,” she said firmly. He stopped, some kind of misunderstanding. She lifted his arm again, turning it with interest under the light from a lantern on the path.
“We’re going inside.” She opened the door.
N. stood awkwardly in the middle of the small room while Mary lit a candle and looked around for something. As she bent over in front of him, her skirt slipped down and her tank top rose up her back. In the gap appeared a tattooed cat—a black cat arching its back, its tail straight up. N. hadn’t seen it before; his first impulse was to touch it. Its eyes stared straight at him.
“Sit down,” said Mary, standing up with a small bag in her hand. “On the chair there.” She pulled up a stool and sat down beside it. The candle burned on the table beside them.
“Let’s see now.” She had unwrapped the bandages on one arm and felt with her fingertips over the stitches. N. closed his eyes, feeling only her hands and his own breath. His sleeve was in the way, and she made him take off his shirt. She felt him, up and over the shoulder. Again on the other arm.
When N. looked up, she had taken a scalpel from the bag.
“They’ve got to come out now.”
N. didn’t answer. She held the knife in her hand in a way that suggested habit, heating the blade by the candle flame without getting it sooty. He let her. It didn’t hurt, only pinched a bit, as the stitches were eased out of the skin around the scars.
N. stretched out his arms and looked at them: irregular stripes that looked like something sewn by Dr. Frankenstein.
The Swede: A Novel Page 4
