Three Minutes

by Anders Roslund

  “Sir? May I continue?” Navarro gestured toward the exit, that’s where they were headed. Crouse was one step behind, Roberts right after him. “Everyone in the camp was captured. Or killed. Two platoons are still at work. Platoon 3, the canine unit—their dogs are trained in warning and tracking corpses and explosives and can detect cocaine and other substances used in its manufacture. And Platoon 5, chemistry, which analyzes all the ingredients used in drug manufacture—it’s thanks to their efforts that we’ve been able to track the cocaine all around the world.”

  Navarro had waded through the mud toward the intensely green high grass and halted when he reached a dark rectangle amid that lushness. He seemed proud, maybe even stretched a bit. “Here. This is where we burned up all the shit. Cocaine in every phase of being processed. Quite a bit of basuco and some finished product, too, right into that blaze. Nearly a ton in total. We saved just a few plastic bags, some samples for our chemists. And over here, if you follow me . . .”

  Then he stopped. Suddenly. Midstep. Listening to something.

  Soon Crouse heard it too.

  A motor. Several of them. Cars? Maybe trucks? Not yet visible, but going down the same muddy path they’d arrived by, he was sure of it. And then more engine noise. From the river. Boats, also more than one.

  The tension was palpable.

  “Sir, this is not good.”

  The special police and soldiers started shouting orders in Spanish. Crouse made out load, and what might have been rocket launcher. He saw Colonel Navarro pull his gun from his right hip and run over to one of the trucks, felt Roberts grab him by the shoulders.

  “Somebody’s seen us, sir!” Roberts’s breath was hot on the skin of his neck. “Our water route is blocked—you heard those boat engines. Our land route is blocked—you can hear those cars clearly now. We have to go back, sir, into the cocina!”

  Roberts pulled his employer backward into the cocaine kitchen and pushed him down on the dirt floor behind one of the benches, the spot with the least amount of visibility, then sat in front of him like a human shield.

  That was when they heard the echo of the first shots. And then more shots. And louder. The machine-gun fire mixed with the explosions. What’s not supposed to happen is happening.

  Crouse twisted to the side, beyond Roberts’s wide body, trying to look outside. And he saw. How everything had turned white. Like the barracks courtyard earlier. Thick, compact smoke surrounded them, the cocina, and what was outside.

  “Head for the exit!”

  But this was not a drill. This was for real.

  “Now!”

  The white smoke absorbed all sound. Explosions and gunshots were drowned in that softness; Roberts’s voice was weak even though he was screaming.

  “Crawl, sir, it could be toxic!” The bodyguard crawled and scooted forward over the dirt floor, and Crouse tried to follow suit, his eyes fixed on the dirty soles of Roberts’s shoes. Crouse pressed his light-colored suit into the mud, crouching, each new breath brought even more smoke into his throat and lungs, and he coughed and coughed until he finally threw up. He couldn’t go on. The cough penetrated deeper as the vomit sapped his spirit, the smoke was so thick he couldn’t see anything. Except for an angry red laser beam searching around anxiously in front of him, finding the silhouette of Roberts’s head. Which shattered.

  Everything was completely silent as strange, excitable gloved hands grabbed his arms, pulled him, pushed him forward. As the wall of smoke became a dancing fog, a floating veil that slowly thinned out. As young people wearing gas masks and camouflaged uniforms dragged the dead through the tall grass, as if they’d been out hunting and were gathering all their quarry into a single pile. As they tore into him, held him, making sure he really saw who lay there in front of him on the ground. Colonel Navarro. On his stomach. In the middle of that black rectangle where they’d burned the drugs—Navarro had never reached the protection of the truck. It took a moment for Crouse to see the rest. The ground beneath Navarro, which showed clearly through the large hole between the colonel’s shoulders.

  And complete silence as someone forced his arms into zip ties, which cut deep into the skin around his wrists, and someone else placed a black blindfold around his head and tied it tightly.

  A flatbed truck. He could tell that much. He felt it. He sat down with his back against the raised edge of the platform and at every unexpected turn, every bump, every brake, he was knocked with new pain.

  Crouse still couldn’t see or hear. It was dark, silent. The blindfold had been followed by earmuffs, which muffled sound. Yet he understood, could interpret. He’d waited, tied up in the grass, and could make out the insistent stench of gasoline as they set fire to one vehicle at a time, felt the vibration of violent explosions from four trucks and a tank that had stood in the outer ring of his protection and two larger cars and six motorcycles that DSS agents traveled in, and the car he and Navarro came in, which had been rebuilt and strengthened until it looked more like a small tank.

  The attackers, likely guerrillas, had known the precise moment that a vehicle, armored to withstand bombs and drive over mines, would become useless because the person it was meant to protect had left it, exposing himself.

  Nobody knows what we’ll find out there. That’s what he always thought, how he’d decided to look at life. How he’d answered every time someone in charge of his security explained how his everyday life had to be further curtailed. Now he knew.

  The platform edge shook, pounding against his spine, the uneven road was full of holes and slippery. But he had no idea where he was. Other than in the jungle, in the terrible heat and humidity, which drained him. He had been sitting like this for several hours, he was also sure of that, despite the pain from his tailbone and left shoulder, which made it hard to think, keep track of time.

  The attackers, murderers, kidnappers had left forty bodies in a pile. Set fire to the vehicles. And then . . . filmed everything. Cámara, película, televisión. The last thing they let him hear before they cut him off from the outside world. Filmed? Why? Had they filmed all of it? The attack? A face being blown apart?

  A sharp turn, his neck and the back of his head hit the cab, and the next time it was an elbow, a nasty, awful shock through his body, which he hadn’t felt for a long time.

  He wasn’t alone. Far from it. He could sense them breathing, several people surrounded him. And they were armed, the weapon of the person sitting closest to him bumped against his hip and thigh, and he wondered if it was intentional, so that he’d know better than to try anything.

  They’d taken the lives of the others. But not his. They’d allowed him to live. Why had they spared him but not Roberts?

  No head. That’s what he’d seen. His bodyguard’s skull split open, his body collapsed.

  You were right. This is my fault.

  “Señor?” A woman’s voice, sharp and nasal, she kicked him, the tip of her boot against his chest, pulled one of the muffs from his ears. “Muchas horas.”

  Strident laughter. Several of them in unison, he was supposed to hear it. Then she let him put his earmuff back on, and it was silent again.

  Many hours. But to what?

  PART TWO

  STOCKHOLM. AFTERNOON. AND a gentle September rain.

  Ewert Grens didn’t notice any of it. He walked the short distance to the car in the parking lot, crammed between walls of empty, stacked shipping containers. Värta Port, tons of traffic and people in motion. On their way to or from Finland, Estonia, Latvia, Poland, one doorway of the capital’s transportation system. He didn’t notice the light drops falling on him, his focus was on the plastic bag he was carrying in his hand, and it meant more to him than any of his surroundings. The temporary premises of the wine auction, that was where he’d been, purchasing rarities he’d otherwise only be able to bid on online—two bottles of Moulin Touchais 1982, which he always purchased at this time of year. A large and important collection, so the entire cellar had been moved
out to this location for an old-fashioned auction, where buyers would have the opportunity to see and touch. He’d paid the standard 2,350 kronor, for the first bottle. The next, with identical contents, had gone for 3,000—the suit who’d lost the first bid to Grens had waved his paddle more frequently. It turned into a contest for the sake of prestige, as sometimes happens at that sort of auction. Overpriced, Grens realized that, but he didn’t give a shit about the connoisseur’s smile, nobody else understood the actual value of these bottles. He bid on a third bottle that he didn’t need. Just to mess with him. Pushed up the price until it was a good deal more expensive than the other two—and the moment the suit triumphantly bid the highest, looking pleased with himself, it had been Ewert Grens’s turn to smile.

  He climbed into the car and placed the plastic bag with two bottles inside it carefully in the passenger seat. He backed out of the parking lot, between confused travelers, and headed toward Gärdet and Östermalm and the city.

  Fancy bottles. Even though alcohol no longer interested him, not the taste nor the effect. Drunkenness was an illusion for cowards who needed a deceptive world to face themselves. Then there were those who thought wine auctions were too expensive for a policeman’s salary. But this was no expense, that was what they didn’t understand. This made him richer. Besides, the only other expenses he had were the coffee machine in the hallway and the occasional Mazarin tart from the vending machine.

  Now he noticed it. The rain shining in the occasional glimmers of sunshine, he put on the windshield wipers and folded down the sun roof.

  Sometimes the wine tasted slightly of cork, the bottles were old and time had had its way. That didn’t bother him in the least. One glass for him from one bottle, and one glass for Anni from the other, then he poured out the rest. That was exactly how much they’d drunk that night. A seven-minute ceremony at the Swedish embassy in Paris—an embassy official as wedding officiant and two porters as witnesses—and then the Loire Valley and the guesthouse that looked like something on a postcard.

  He was on his way to her, as always on this day. But he made a detour through the city, over Tegelbacken toward Kungsholmen, where he’d stop by the Kronoberg police station and retrieve the cooler from his office—the wine had to be kept between eight and ten degrees Celsius. And on top of the cooler lay the two peaches in a small bowl.

  Moulin Touchais and peaches. He remembered only a portion of the wedding dinner. Lobster soup as an appetizer, and he’d refused to let go of Anni’s hand, he hadn’t known you could hold another person in that way. A main course while he slowly drowned—constantly looking at her, into her, knowing that he would never again feel alone. Mostly he remembered dessert, how they giggled at how improbable it was that they’d really just gotten married and drank sweet dessert wine, which the guesthouse proprietor proudly explained came from the region, and which you were supposed to drink with flambé peaches, because peaches apparently brought out the taste, enhanced the scent of honey and almonds. Grens still had no idea after all these years if that was true, he couldn’t tell the difference, but he always made sure to bring two peaches.

  The traffic light outside City Hall turned yellow, and he stopped. The car behind him, a taxi that had been following a little too close, slowed to avoid a collision and honked irritably and without interruption until the light turned green. On another day Grens might have stepped out of his car, pulled open the door, and demanded to know what the hell the taxi driver thought he was doing. But not on this day. Not on his way to her.

  They always drank that exact wine, exact same vintage, on their wedding anniversary. First, when she was still healthy, and they lived together. Then after she’d entered the nursing home, he brought in those unopened bottles, sat in her institutional room and held her hand while they toasted. Anni had smiled and taken a sip as best she could when he brought the glass to her mouth. He’d been sure she recognized the taste, that it awakened something inside her. The doctors had said what they always said, that it was impossible, but they’d never stopped him from letting her have a drink, and he knew something they didn’t—that her hand felt different inside his on those days. Every year the wine got more expensive and harder to find, until finally only available at auctions.

  He glanced at the bottles as he turned right onto the street Norr Mälarstrand. They lay beside him in a plastic bag, clinking a little in time to the music—Siw Malmkvist and Lyckans ost. It had taken him a long time to find a functioning tape deck for his car. He turned up the volume and sang loudly in chorus with Siw, out the partially rolled-down windows.

  Suddenly the taxi that had been honking behind him veered out into oncoming traffic in a furious attempt to pass him. And the driver realized too late that a traffic island with a high curb was up ahead. The taxi driver increased his speed a little more and squeezed into Grens’s lane just before hitting the island—forcing Grens to hit the brakes. Everything inside the car continued forward, crashing against the window and ceiling and doors.

  Silence. Slanting across the road. He looked around—he’d heard right. A sound that drowned out tires screeching on the asphalt. Bottles shattering.

  The plastic bag had hit in the center of the dashboard and expensive wine was now dripping onto a floor mat covered with large shards of glass. The taxi drove on without checking to see if there’d been any consequences for his fellow commuters. Grens started the car again, sped up, and caught up with the taxi near Rålambshov Park. Now it was his turn to trail too closely and honk persistently. Until the cab driver tired of it and slammed on his brakes.

  It was inevitable. Grens drove straight into him. And both felt and heard the two vehicles buckle as metal met metal.

  “You old, fucking bastard . . .” The cab driver, a middle-aged man in a blue taxi uniform with a glowering, red face, jumped out of his car, shouting at Grens. “. . . Why the hell did you stop at that yellow—and honk at me now!”

  Grens yelled back through his rolled-down window. “Because you drive like a fucking cabbie bastard!”

  They were in the middle of the road, not very far from each other. If Grens were to step out of his car, they’d collide. Again.

  “Fucking asshole! I’ve been driving taxis in this city for twenty-two years, and the surest way to make me laugh is for a fucking amateur to try to tell me how to drive!”

  More honking. But it wasn’t from Grens or the taxi driver this time—behind them two cars had formed a queue, which was getting longer with every swear word.

  “Listen . . . I’ve been a cop in this town for thirty-nine years and the surest way to make me laugh is to see some asshole cab driver lose his license.” Grens was searching through the inside pocket of his jacket for the black leather case that held his police badge. He located the badge, held it up, waved it a little bit.

  The taxi driver walked over, put one hand on the roof of the car and one hand on the sideview mirror, glaring at the plastic card with the word police written on it. “Cop? I could have bought something like that online. Get the hell out of here before I get really mad and do something I might regret.”

  The cab driver was outside Grens’s car door, waiting, when he started showily sniffing the air and leaned forward, following the smell that was streaming out through the open windows. “What the hell . . . I smell booze! You’re really fucked now!”

  Grens shook his head angrily and shifted his heavy body slightly, lifting up the leaking plastic bag, pulling out a shard of glass that ripped the air between them to pieces. But the taxi driver never saw that, he was already gone—loping hastily back to his own car, then pushing in the two buttons on either side of his radio in order to place a call.

  “Four-three-one-nine has been hit by an extremely drunk and aggressive driver.”

  At one of Taxi Stockholm’s switchboards there was now a flashing red light on the ceiling and a sign in front of the operator that said EMERGENCY.

  “Please call for police assistance as fast as possible! I�
�m on Norr Mälarstrand, near the west side of Rålambshov Park.” Then he jumped out of the car again and against a backdrop of honking vehicles, shouted in triumph. “Ha! Now you’re gonna catch hell, you bastard! Are you a drunk, or what?”

  Grens sat in the driver’s seat, the wet bag in his hand. “You’ve just ruined my visit with my wife.”

  “I don’t give a shit about your wife!”

  Before Grens managed to stand up, before he could roar, nobody says that about Anni, he saw a new taxi approaching at high speed, coming to a stop in front of the two stationary vehicles and blocking the roadway. A ruddy, freckled man jumped out. In one hand he held a baton. He looked around and then joined his colleague. Grens waited while they spoke to each other, almost debating. They apparently came to some decision, and the first one pointed and the second one raised his baton and started to walk. Toward him.

  “You hear me, wino? This is what we’re going to do—you step out of that car. You’re in no shape to drive. And we’re gonna have a little talk.” He hit the baton against his palm, repeatedly, a smacking sound, like a whip against unprotected skin.

  Grens had no intention of escalating the situation. But he didn’t carry a baton with him, and if he left the driver’s seat without a weapon there was a high probability that Freckles would use his. But sitting here was no real option either. He had only one choice—use a weapon that was more powerful than his attacker’s. He unbuttoned the shoulder holster hanging diagonally across his shirt and took out his gun, put a bullet in the chamber. “I don’t think so, cabbie. I’ll wait here until my colleagues arrive. Moreover, if I were you I’d be sure to put that tiny baton of yours away real quick. Otherwise, I might think you’re trying to threaten me.”