“If he’s employed by us, he’s also our responsibility!” Masterson wasn’t shouting, not yet, but her voice had risen a bit above the recommended conversational tone.
“Excuse me?” The crossed arms and legs in the green chair unwound, eager to interfere. “Correct me if I’ve misunderstood this, but you were the one who snuck this name onto our list?”
Unlike Perry, William Riley had never liked her. The director of the FBI had even publicly opposed her appointment as head of the DEA, but he’d been disregarded. Her qualifications and competence had been more than enough, and she’d never really understood if he disliked her personally or was just opposed to female executives.
“Yes, but if you’ll let me explain—”
“Without informing the FBI—the authority in charge of the list?”
She looked at the fireplace and the large clock hanging above it—still ticking loudly. “Yes.”
“Then I guess he’s your responsibility, right? Your problem?”
Five till ten. She’d used up half her time.
“The identity of an informant, especially a criminal, should only be known by a bare minimum. You know that’s how it works, Riley. Planting false information in public records. Because being detected would be a death sentence. And each new individual who knows the identity of an informant increases that risk. That’s how we’ve always done this, and how we’ll continue to do this. And you’ll continue to be grateful for it.”
“This dilemma, if I may call it that, isn’t about our methods. It’s about politics.”
“And morality. But maybe that’s the same thing in this room?” Sue Masterson turned to the chief of staff, seeking his support. He didn’t say anything. But he was frustrated, that much was clear. His ears were flushed red and wiggled slightly.
“So who is he?” Now it was the blue armchair. Marc Eve, the CIA director. And he smiled wryly while he waited for her response.
“As I tried to explain, he’s our informant, one of us.”
He knew when he asked the question that he wasn’t going to get an answer. Now he scrutinized her with a piercing, unreadable gaze. She’d met eyes like those before, and she knew better than to give in. It was just as common among leaders in the police force as it was in top members of drug syndicates—a lot of power in a limited world. They were the most dangerous. Especially when they were fed half-truths, like now. Lack of empathy combined with the wielding of power, decisions reduced to their intellectual and rational aspects.
“I asked who he is. What’s his name? Where does he come from?”
“I don’t know his real identity. I don’t have his complete personal data—that was part of the agreement with his contact person. What I know is that he’s called El Sueco, and he’s from somewhere in northern Europe.”
“He’s not a US citizen?” Now Marc Eve smiled for real. “Then there’s no problem.”
He looked around, triumphantly.
Sue looked around, worriedly.
A jury was deliberating on a death sentence. On a killing. Despite the fact that this jury already knew the accused was innocent.
“What is it you don’t understand? We pay him—a branch of the federal government. He works for our government!” Her water glass was empty. The lemon slice on its way down the side. She filled it again, emptied it.
Morality and politics. They were not the same thing.
“And this . . . this is the fucking White House! Surely we can’t be considering condemning an innocent man to death!” She had raised her voice again. She had thrown a curse word at the snooty walls, and it echoed around and around. Until the only one in the room who had yet to speak, Vice President Thompson, captured it.
“Sue?” A soft voice. That struck hard. “We’re going to have to ask you to leave. We need to discuss this. And we’ll call you again when we’re done.”
Every time, a new face.
Erik Wilson nodded toward the civilian guard who he’d never seen before, patiently held up his police badge until he got the nod back, and headed to the elevator, pressed the button for the seventh floor.
There had been a time when they loved each other. He still loved her, in a way. But it wasn’t love that clouded his judgment. There was no one in the world he had more confidence in than Sue Masterson. Analytical, structured, strategic. Much better than he ever was or could be.
So he should relax. Nevertheless, his whole body felt uneasy, no matter how tight his control on his breathing.
“Your business here?” A voice above him in the elevator. He leaned closer to the microphone.
“Superintendent Wilson, on his way to relieve you.”
A slightly too long pause. An audible sigh. Someone was definitely relieved.
The seventh floor. And he lingered without stepping out. He suddenly realized where his uneasiness was coming from, why it buzzed around his head nipping, sapping, spitting out all of his energy. He trusted her implicitly—as a police officer. But this was about more than just police work. This was politics. And he’d been caught up in something like this already—Swedish politicians who sentenced Piet Hoffmann to death on the basis of the false records they had access to. And when they were informed of their mistake, were told Hoffmann was paid by the Swedish police and not their enemy. And then, despite that, they let a false death sentence stand to maintain their power.
He stepped out of the elevator, a guards’ station with another civilian employee inside sitting behind a rolled-up window. And now he heard a very familiar voice. It was quiet, still far away, but there was no doubt. As he approached, the strain from the intercom increased, the loud monologue of a man in a tiny cell trying to call attention to himself.
“Now get in here, as fast as hell, and unlock this door!”
The guard, a young man with kind eyes, shrugged resignedly.
“Do you hear what I’m saying! Fucking guard!”
“Yes. I hear what you’re saying. I’ve heard everything you’ve said.”
“So unlock this goddamn door!”
“I can’t do that. I explained that to you, Superintendent.”
“Unlock it!”
“I’m not the one you need to talk to, sir. The arrest order was written by Chief Prosecutor Ågestam. He’s the one who decides when we should let you go. As you know, Superintendent.”
“The chief prosecutor is also a magnificent ass! And that is neither libel nor defamation. It’s the truth!”
The intercom wasn’t entirely new, a model that had seen better days, and, apparently, its volume control sat on one side. Wilson noticed the guard turning it down.
“So he’s been like that for several hours.”
“I’m sure he could keep it up quite a bit longer.”
“He’s been asking for a breathalyzer, but it’s too late to matter now.”
He handed over his badge again, and the guard examined it quickly, stood up almost immediately, and opened the door to the jail. Wilson followed him, passed the rows of locked doors, a place where the dust seemed more oppressive than elsewhere. Cell 5. A man was screaming inside and kicking the few fixtures there were.
Wilson nodded at the young guard, who started to walk away—waited until he was alone before pulling open the small hatch in the middle of the door. The opening was positioned near eye level, and he found himself staring at the wide back of a blazer. Ewert Grens’s back. In the civilian clothes he’d been allowed to keep. Out of fear of his screaming and threats? Or out of respect for a superior? Or because not even the staff at the jail believed him guilty of what he was accused of?
“Do you want to come out?”
The blazer back turned and became two black eyes. “Open up!”
“Because if you want that, you need to calm down.”
“Wilson, for fuck’s sake . . .”
There was a clear click as Wilson pushed down the hatch. A muffled sound. He sat down on a little three-legged stool that stood outside the cell. One minute. Two.
Two and a half. Until it was completely silent behind that locked door. Then he opened the hatch again.
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Good. Wait a second.”
Wilson motioned toward the guard station, gesturing as if he had an imaginary key in his hand, and the guard soon headed toward him with a huge bundle of keys, as if he were in a hurry, as if he wanted to be sure that the detective who found the whole world incompetent wouldn’t have time to repent and start yelling again.
A deep, metallic sigh as the heavy lock turned. A crumpled blazer. And large stains on it. The clear remains of wine on a man who, to Wilson’s knowledge, never drank alcohol. Equally wrinkled and stained trousers. And the little hair left on Grens’s head sprawled in every direction.
They walked side by side through the corridor, the air unreasonably dusty, maybe because neither spoke. Passing one, two, three, four locked cell doors. Until Grens stopped abruptly.
“What the hell are you wearing?”
“Ewert, I think I’m the one who should be asking you that.”
“Still . . . a uniform?”
“I’m a police officer. And sometimes it’s a matter of life and death.”
They looked at each other. And maybe Grens realized that the seriousness in his boss’s face was real, and no more explanation would be forthcoming at that moment, because that would require more strength than he had. For whatever reason, he kept walking without asking, stretching his stiff neck and sore right leg as they wandered through a large building that was part of the compound that formed the epicenter for Swedish police work. Three doors with keys, three with keycards. Both men lost in their own thoughts. Until they reached the homicide unit. Until Ewert Grens’s office, where they separated.
“I assume you’ll come by later to see me, Ewert, and explain what this afternoon was all about. How it is you ended up chewing out prison guards in a wine-soaked suit. But for now, just try to take it easy.”
Grens had already disappeared into his office. No thank-yous, no excuses. The old stereo in his bookshelf crackled as he turned on a tape he’d recorded himself, where Siw Malmkvist sang a song in Swedish, and Connie Francis followed it with the original in English. Wilson stood there until “Tunna skivor” was replaced by “Everybody’s Somebody’s Fool” and he realized the detective had no intention of turning around.
“Ewert—I just got you out of jail. You’re my responsibility. So now, for once in your life, do as I say.”
The cheerful, hopeful, ’60s voices escorted him down the hallway as he continued walking toward his own office, but when he reached the coffee machine the music changed to something electronic, monotone. His cell phone. His entire jacket pocket vibrated arrhythmically, urgently.
“Yes?”
“They wouldn’t back down.” Sue. Speaking with a voice he’d never heard. “They insist on keeping the kill list as is.”
Her matter-of-factness. Her fearlessness, confidence. All gone.
“Hoffmann is still the Seven of Hearts.”
“Damn it, Sue . . . you’re sending him to his death!”
“If anyone’s aware of that it’s me.”
“One of your own!”
“I’ve gone as far as I could trying to explain that. They painted themselves into a corner. And plan to stay there.”
Now it was Siw Malmkvist again, in Swedish. And she sang from Grens’s office in that old-fashioned way: happily, chirpily. Wilson understood for a moment why Grens sought out that simplicity, to avoid everything else.
“So now, Sue, it’s fine to execute your employees for doing their jobs?”
He waited. For an answer that wasn’t forthcoming. It was as if she’d hung up.
“This is how it is. So listen closely, Erik. I, in my role as the director of the DEA, will no longer be allowed to concern myself with this matter. At all. Even this conversation is a crime. If I did continue with this, it would, according to the people I just met with—and I’m quoting now—‘be unilaterally perceived and interpreted as if the director of the DEA were deliberately working against the best interests of the United States of America.’ I was also informed that, under such circumstances, first I would be dismissed, then prosecuted.”
Even her breathing was less self-assured.
He listened to it, expectantly.
“He’s sentenced to death, and neither I nor his handler can contact him or assist him in any way. But just because we can’t, doesn’t mean someone else can’t. Right, Erik?”
He held the phone in his hand. But no voice, no breath beyond electronic silence. She’d hung up.
But someone else can.
The bastards had not backed down. Just like the Swedish politicians had not backed down.
Right, Erik?
She had spoken directly to him. Encouraging him.
There were only three people, besides Piet Hoffmann and his wife, who knew of his escape from a Swedish jail and that he was still alive. And two of them could no longer practice their profession without reprisal.
He stood in the middle of a corridor next to a humming coffee machine. If he listened closely, there were so many other sounds. Sixties music layered over a woman speaking loudly into the phone in the office opposite, and, farther away, people laughing on their way out of a meeting, easing the tension as you do when you stand up and can stop being serious for a moment. He turned around, toward the coffee machine, and squeezed out two cups, black.
There were only three who knew. Soon there would be four.
SKY-BLUE CARPET, ocean-blue wallpaper. A room that was meant to exude stillness, awareness, intellect. They’d made the decision jointly and convinced each other that it was the right one. Now they all stood up. Vice President Thompson behind her desk, FBI Director Riley and CIA Director Eve from their armchairs, Chief of Staff Perry from the sofa, while taking a last swig from his coffee mug.
Riley got to the closed door first, pushed down the handle, and opened it. Then regretted it.
“Can we trust her?” He closed it again, turned around. “Can we trust Masterson?”
Perry put down his coffee with so much force the flawless table whined.
“Can we trust you, Bill? Sue Masterson was appointed by the president. Just like you. And we choose to trust those we appoint.”
The last drops of coffee had splashed onto the surface of the table, and the chief of staff wiped them away with the crumbly napkin of the dessert tray before continuing.
“We’ve explained to Sue that she should have nothing more to do with this case. And she understands that.”
Riley smiled, or maybe it was a sneer. “Are you absolutely sure of that?”
First Riley’s voice from one direction, followed by Vice President Thompson’s voice from the other.
“Are you absolutely sure it’s just a personal feeling that Bill is expressing? And not an actual risk? Because we can’t afford any questions later, from anybody. Not about any tiny mistakes, like one of our top law enforcement officials putting one of our own on a Most Wanted list for strategic reasons. An individual they recruited, as the DEA so often does, from the criminal world. And that she did so without informing her superiors.” She wondered what the Secretary of State would have said about all this if she were in town. She was on a diplomatic mission to China, wouldn’t return until next week. It couldn’t be helped. Better to deal with this themselves, keep it within this room.
She was now looking only at Perry. “You said it yourself, Daniel. Confidence gives us the support we need. Leaves us free to act.”
No one heard it at first. A knock drowned out somewhere beneath the golden chandelier. The next time it was louder, more insistent. Riley, who was closest, opened the door. A young man was waiting outside, the Secret Service officer who previously escorted them here.
“This is for Chief of Staff Perry. It’s important.”
A white envelope. He handed it to the FBI director, who passed it to the sofa. T
he chief of staff looked at the vice president, who nodded. Perry slit open the envelope.
A single document. A photo. A man he recognized. A man he knew, but who looked very different from when he’d last seen him in these hallways just a few days ago. Speaker Crouse. Trapped in a cage.
ERIK WILSON HAD just heard music coming through an open door. But now, when he returned, it was closed. Grens had closed it in the short time Wilson spent on his way to and from the coffee machine, trying to indicate he wanted to be left alone. It was difficult to knock with two full plastic cups in hand, so he kicked lightly with the tip of his shoe on the bottom edge of the door, twice.
“We need to talk, Ewert.”
“You told me I was supposed to explain it to you later. And I will. Later.”
“I’m not interested in how you ended up in a jail right now. We need to talk about something else entirely. And it’s a goddamn hurry.”
Wilson stared at the closed door. No nameplate, no information whatsoever. Grens had refused to put up a new sign, objected to doing what every other office dweller did, for reasons he himself had probably already forgotten.
“Just a minute. Almost ready.”
He’d been allowed to do as he pleased. It wasn’t that important anyway. And Wilson had long since stopped waging pointless battles. He could hear the closet door opening inside, the same squeak in every office. Then complete silence. The coffee cups were burning his palms, and he put them down on the floor in front of the threshold. And waited in the dark corridor. It felt nice to do nothing, think nothing.
“You can come in now.”
Wilson picked up the two cups and bent forward, pressing down on the handle with his elbow. The wine-stained suit lay in a pile on the floor. Next to it stood Grens. Also in uniform. It was on the tight side.
“I didn’t have anything else.” The superintendent pointed to the closet in the corner that probably contained additional uniforms even smaller than this one, from a time when there wasn’t quite so much of Ewert Grens.
Three Minutes Page 14
