Hoffmann had been weeping when Grens returned—still standing there with his bag, looking as lonely and deserted and empty as he probably felt. They nodded to each other and headed to the small parking lot outside Sky City, temporary spots for a few vehicles, one of them held the police car Grens had requested for transport between Arlanda airport and the Aspsås high-security prison.
“Normally, Hoffmann, you’d have spent the night at the Kronoberg jail. But it was Aspsås you escaped from. And Oscarsson, the chief warden, had it pretty . . . well, tough after you left, since he was the one responsible for everything you managed to smuggle in and the subsequent explosions you arranged. He told me immediately that he had a place for you in the new protection department. Or maybe he created one. Either way, he wasn’t difficult to persuade when I gave him the opportunity to lock you up—again.”
A short trip, twenty or thirty kilometers, but enough time to talk about whatever needed to be talked about.
“And you understand this is where both the national police commissioner and Göransson are?”
“I understood that, Superintendent.”
“It’s important that you stay cool. Fighting back against the men who used me like an idiot, who manipulated me into taking a shot at your head, the men who exploited you, and made you dangerous, and then threw you away—revenge behind bars, now when they’re the ones who can’t escape, probably wouldn’t be . . . so appropriate.”
“The thought never crossed my mind.”
“Good. Things like that are supposed to hurt terribly.”
“And I’d just like to say that now, unlike then, you know who I am. If it were to happen. Which, of course, it won’t.”
“Of course.”
Grens stood as close to the seven-meter-high wall as possible. Together they walked toward the prison gate, where a bell and a surveillance camera were waiting. This was where the prison guards would meet them and take over responsibility for a prisoner who’d once threatened their colleagues and killed and injured their prisoners, and who they now knew had been working undercover for the Swedish police. Grens extended his hand, Hoffmann his, they squeezed hard and then let go. The detective superintendent was about to leave when Hoffmann waved away the first prison guard, asking for a moment more.
“Just one more thing.”
Grens smiled, not particularly surprised. There was always one more thing.
“Just this.”
Hoffmann held out the brown, shiny suitcase.
“I should have sent it with Zofia. I won’t need it in here. And locking it up in some dusty fucking storage space with a bunch of other prisoners’ trash doesn’t feel right. So I was wondering—can you take it? Put it in a corner in your office? Keep it for about eight months?”
THE NEXT DAY
LATER THAN USUAL. But it felt the same somehow.
It wasn’t often Ewert Grens was this calm, that terrible restlessness still plagued him, and despite his sixty-three years he’d still found no way to escape it. But on his way to her, to celebrate their day, his whole body had turned soft, warm, as if he’d never again have to face the fear or anger or loneliness.
He hadn’t slept a wink. But with warmth and softness filling him up, he didn’t need to. And even if he’d tried it wouldn’t have worked, for other reasons—he hadn’t yet figured out how to handle the time difference, he’d switched over to Colombian time just when it was time to switch back to Swedish time, and, apparently, it was too much of an adjustment for someone who was so stuck in their ways, holding tight to routine in order to avoid losing himself.
He’d left the wine auction with a plastic bag in his hand this morning and walked through Värta Port, which was as calm as him now, deserted, it was one of those days when people weren’t headed anywhere. The cooler was already beside him in the passenger seat, and he made sure this time to put the bottles into it directly, tighten the seat belt around it, and fasten it tightly in case of any unexpected jolts.
And of course—a different route. Not through Östermalm or the city like a few weeks earlier, now he left the port area and drove through the new Northern Link tunnel, straight roads and far from where most taxis roamed.
This morning’s obligatory conversation with a court-appointed alcohol and drug therapist—Grens had insisted it be completed before nine o’clock, he had more important things to do—had proven that Detective Superintendent Ewert Grens certainly had many bad sides, but none of them were related to the consumption of alcohol. After just a few minutes of dialogue, the therapist stated that both the taxi drivers and the chief prosecutor lacked the expertise to evaluate him—that this was a man who rarely used alcohol, who was uninterested in intoxication, and that the two bottles of expensive wine that now sat in the seat next to him were about the extent of his drinking every year.
Magnificent ass.
Those were the words Grens had initially used to describe the chief prosecutor, and after an unusually short inquiry—two hours—he’d seen nothing to contradict the label. The preliminary investigation was closed quickly due to lack of evidence. Grens wasn’t much for internal investigations, more asses would be called in to investigate, but he offered Ågestam—as thanks for yesterday’s cooperation—the choice between that or a personal apology. The bastard had stood in Grens’s office next to the worn corduroy sofa and the rickety coffee table, while Siw sang “Tunna Skivor,” and stretched out a damp, limp hand.
Roslagstull became Norrtull became the E4 highway north. A cooler with two bottles of 1982 Moulin Touchais, which had been purchased even more expensively than ever before in a bidding war between three parties—the same suit as last time, and a lady in a wide-brimmed red hat. He checked the seat belt, pulled on it a few times to make sure, then nudged the bowl of two fresh, almost entirely golden peaches, which stood on the passenger-side floor.
Wine. And peaches. And the proud waitress at a guesthouse in the Loire Valley who served them on the very first day they’d shared a last name, who insisted on flambé peaches for dessert to draw out the flavor. She’d spoken at length about the wine and the vineyard, which had, since the early 1800s, placed a few cases in their cellars each year, and about how a century later they’d dug even more cellars so that they could set aside ten thousand bottles to mature. Until the Second World War. And the arches had been bricked up. And there they remained—complete, untouched vintages—and stayed put until the vaults were reopened in the ’70s. Grens would probably be able to round them up two at a time and take them to her for the rest of his life.
Those first years they’d toasted with that particular wine, on that particular day, in a restaurant in Old Town or at home in their apartment on Svea Road. At the nursing home the glasses hadn’t been quite as beautiful, just regular juice glasses, but the wine had tasted the same. In recent years, he’d made the trip to the North Cemetery, wandering among the stones toward a newer section with simple wooden crosses, block 19B, grave 603.
Anni Grens
That was all he’d had them engrave on that small metal plate. A row of heather and behind that a taller plant with pink clusters of flowers that could hardly be called beautiful, but he’d planted them because he liked the name—Love’s Herb. He fetched a water jug that was hanging near a rake stand, filled it halfway, and started watering. Careful not to splash a drop on the rose bush that stood closest to the cross, the place that was the least shadowed by the surrounding trees. That flower was his alcohol clock. After filling two glasses, he first drank his own and then poured hers over the roses, making sure to wet some petals, which drooped immediately. It would take them two hours to stand up again. When they did, he knew his blood alcohol level was low enough to be able to drive again.
Grens walked over to a bench, which stood just off the asphalt path, dragged it over, and placed it on the grass in front of her cross. He sat down, and it sagged a little in the middle from his weight.
The stillness of a cemetery. He’d feared it for so
long. But had learned to like it, depend on it. He opened the bottles, one each. He was celebrating late this year, but that would never happen again.
The first drops, and he remembered exactly how she looked when she drank this wine the first time, how she laughed, grabbed his arm, pulled him closer, kissed him, and whispered that they would never leave each other.
FOUR MONTHS LATER
HE COULDN’T UNDERSTAND why he’d chosen this path, walking down Pennsylvania Avenue block after block for more than an hour in black dress shoes and a warm suit, with nagging sore feet and hips that ached every time his heels hit the pavement. A new bodyguard walked a half step ahead of him. Another walked a half step behind. He didn’t know their names, they were switched out regularly. If you got to know someone better, more deeply, then you become involved, had to go to their funeral, and he hadn’t even visited Roberts’s ceremonial grave—instead he’d seen him turned to ashes for real.
He was there. The fence. The gate. The lawn. The fountain. And the final arc-shaped piece of asphalt before the official entrance to the White House.
Morning spent at the NGA, then lunch at the House of Representatives, a normal day. Until now. He’d so far avoided coming here, to the meetings and briefings he was invited to once a week. He no longer wanted to know who was killed and how. Four months of freedom, that was why he was here—it was time.
He nodded and greeted the Secret Service guards who opened the White House door—no ID was asked for, no search conducted. As one of the country’s most powerful politicians, he was used to being recognized by strangers—but since the kidnapping it had reached another level, Timothy D. Crouse was a bona fide celebrity now, and he could see this different level of recognition reflected in people’s eyes.
“You stay here.”
He lingered while his bodyguards—not quite convinced they were doing the right thing—left his side and sat down on simple chairs just inside the entrance. He then continued alone through corridor after corridor.
The day after his rescue and the press conference watched around the world, he’d been encouraged to meet with the House of Representatives team of trauma experts. But he’d declined, not willing to expose himself there, instead he sought private help—a therapist he met in connection with Liz’s treatment, who helped both of her parents through their grief. Emotional memories. That was what they’d worked on, and it had been hell to call forth the feelings associated with seeing thirty-nine people die because of him. To relive being transported into the jungle on a truck bed, blindfolded, no idea where, why. A mock execution. Being locked up in a cage. Being tortured. Becoming an animal covered in mud and rags.
His therapist estimated he’d need at least one, maybe two years, to be able to handle emotions, thoughts, as he did before. But it hadn’t turned out that way. What should have disturbed him after only four months no longer did. It didn’t bother him in the same way anymore and he knew why—a man who had lost his only child had nothing left to lose. Those bastards thought they’d broken him, and might have before, but not now; they never got close to the fear that had already left him.
A closed door. He knocked, opened it, went in. It looked just as it did when he was here for a meeting the day before his Colombia trip. Sky-blue carpet, ocean-blue wallpaper. A mirror with a gold frame, a chandelier with candles that were never lit. Vice President Thompson behind her oak desk with her blonde hair put up and her red glasses on a cord around her neck. But the others hadn’t been here last time. Chief of Staff Perry, CIA Director Marc Eve, and head of the FBI William Riley.
“Sit down.”
The blue armchair, that was where he was supposed to sit. Near the fireplace, they thought maybe it would be warmer, safer for someone they assumed was fragile.
The Final War on Drugs. Kill lists. Colombia. It was not just meetings in here he’d opted out of, he’d consistently avoided any conversations with journalists, colleagues, or even his own siblings. Just like after Liz died. He didn’t understand why then nor did he now. Maybe he just needed more time. Maybe he was the type who turned his emotions to thoughts, never allowing them to leave his brain for his chest. Or maybe this was just his way of surviving.
A large pile of documents lay on the antique table between them. On top of the stack—like the cover of a novel they’d soon read aloud to each other—lay an illustration of thirteen playing cards, on each of those cards stood one of thirteen portraits, and under that thirteen aliases.
Chief of Staff Perry leaned forward and pulled the pile closer, apparently it was his stack.
“The Ace of Hearts.” Perry removed the book cover–like illustration and grabbed the next document. A black-and-white photograph. A dead man. Hanging in a noose. Crouse grabbed the back of the chair for support, no longer quite sure if he’d done right coming here.
“Ace of Hearts. Luis Alberto Torres, alias Jacob Mayo. Located in a port city called Buenaventura. And like the capture of Saddam Hussein, the Ace of Spades during Operation Iraqi Freedom, we gauged a trial and public hanging with an open flow of information would garner the most public support.”
Crouse stared at the terrible picture, couldn’t look away. From the black hood that looked so uncomfortable. And he wondered if the hood was for Torres’s sake, or to protect those who were watching.
“Imprisoned at Camp Justice—which you, Tim, are quite familiar with—throughout the trial. The man we had stationed there, a Jonathan Woods from the embassy, described how, and I’m quoting now, ‘the PRC commander in chief was led to the gallows, a trapdoor surrounded by red rails, while making small talk with his masked executioners.’ Furthermore, and I’m quoting again, ‘a soft cloth was put around his neck before the noose was placed there and tightened, and the trapdoor was opened.’ Finally, Woods concludes his report ‘the former commander fell to his death, and I heard his neck snap.’”
Chief of Staff Daniel Perry kept a red marker in his right jacket pocket. Now he used it to cross out the picture of the Ace of Hearts, then sat the next document on the table. A new picture. A crumbling pile of black coal, the remains of a man in the sooty concrete foundation of a burned-out building.
“The King of Hearts. Juan Mauricio Ramos, alias El Médico. We used a drone. USS Liberty, firing from the Pacific, eight miles off the west coast of Colombia. The target—a building near Jamundí, south of Cali. Took out the whole family at the same time.”
The red marker crossed out the King of Hearts’s face. And a new picture. A large crater in the ground.
“Queen of Hearts. Catalina Herrador Sierra, alias Mona Lisa. Knocked out with a specially designed hybrid missile. USS Dwight D. Eisenhower, firing from the Caribbean Sea, twenty-two miles north of Colombia’s coastline. The target—a property in La Cuchilla, west of Medellín. A two-pronged attack, which I’ll return to.”
The Queen of Hearts’s face was stained red. And then—a new photograph. A burned-out car. Covered with black soot. At the edge of the photo, still in the driver’s seat—the remains of a human being. And Crouse’s gaze became stuck for a second time—on what he realized must be a head. So small. Like a newborn. Shrunken. He knew that heat was capable of that.
“Jack of Hearts. Johnny Sánchez, alias El Mestizo. A bomb. Which exploded one morning when he started his Mercedes G-Wagen in front of the brothel he owned. The technical analysis showed good craftsmanship—an ordinary car alarm supplemented with explosives, screws, and plastic explosives. We actually got the tip directly from former DEA Chief Sue Masterson, the last thing she did for us, gave us both the time and location, where and when we could find him. And best of all—we didn’t even have to plant the explosives! According to Masterson it was an internal conflict, between two guerrillas.”
The chief of staff buried him with two red strokes.
“A violent death for a violent man.”
Crouse no longer held on to the chair for support. He was leaning forward, first toward the picture of a shrunken head, then toward wh
oever stood on the playing card. “Can I see that?”
Perry handed him the photograph of the burned-out car.
“Not that. What you crossed out.”
He’d seen that face before. Via satellite when he’d executed and buried four soldiers. In person, when he stepped into a cage to carry out torture.
“El Mestizo. Isn’t that what they called him?”
“Tim, what is it?”
Crouse, without realizing it, had stood up, and was equally unaware that he’d turned a flaming red from forehead to neck, and that he’d started to shake.
It was him. Who smiled as he destroyed me.
“Hey, Tim, are you okay?” The vice president grabbed his arm, held on to it.
But Crouse lifted her hand away, shaking off the unwanted physical contact. “Keep going. Now.”
They’d all seen it. Crouse had gone elsewhere for a moment, beyond this, beyond communication. But none of them really knew or recognized where. So now they looked at one another, searching for answers they would never receive.
Crouse dried his neck and the top of his head with his white shirtsleeve, focusing his breath on his anxiety until he pulled the air all the way down to his stomach and forced it to remain there. Then he sat down again, and his trembling ceased, at least on the outside.
“Very well then, Tim. We’ll move on.”
Perry continued pulling paper out of his pile, plowing through document after document, now arranged in four piles on the antique coffee table.
“The remains of the Ten of Hearts—the other target in our two-pronged attack.”
The first document—a picture of a crater. At least that’s what it looked like. Like a black hole in the ground.
“Just like the Queen of Hearts, even though little remained, we’re completely confident we got the right person, were able to extract some DNA—we found a femur, which is ideal, basically still intact. You can see one of them here.”
Three Minutes Page 42
