Ultimatum

by Anders de la Motte

  She locked the door and switched on the red lamp to indicate that the room was occupied. She sat down on the examination table and took a deep breath.

  He answered on the second ring.

  “You lied to me, Oscar.” She stood up, almost unconsciously.

  “I told you not to call here. You’re supposed to wait for me to contact you.”

  “Sarac.” Natalie kept her voice as calm as she could. “He’s dead, isn’t he? He’s the one in the papers, the dead body that was found in Lake Mälaren.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “That’s why Amante came to see me. Sarac’s dead, but you’re keeping it quiet.”

  The brief pause before he replied told her all she needed to know.

  “I thought I made myself clear regarding both your wild theories and this type of conversation. You don’t call me—”

  “Why not, then?” she interrupted. “Because you own me? Sorry, but you can forget that. All I have to do is call the newspaper hotline of my choice and all hell will break loose. The whole Skarpö story will be dragged up again, and this time there’ll be more questions. I might even consider answering some of them this time.”

  “I’m warning you, Natalie.”

  “Warn me as much as you like. You can even tell me that pathetic story about the fucking dog again if it’ll make you feel better. But the way I see it, we’re one-all as far as secrets go. We could call it a balance of fear; what do you think?” She ended the call before he had time to reply.

  • • •

  When Natalie got home she found Atif in the hallway. He looked considerably better than that morning, which improved her already good mood even more. Two miracles in the same day. She’d put Wallin in his place and had practically brought someone back from the dead.

  “On your way out?”

  He nodded.

  “I need to see someone. An old friend. He can help me get a few things.”

  “Okay.” She looked at him. Sunglasses, the hood of his jacket pulled up over a baseball cap he must have found in her closet. “Is there anything I can say to persuade you to wait a day or two, until you’ve built your strength up a bit? That infection isn’t gone yet: you could soon get worse again.”

  Atif shook his head.

  “The clock’s ticking. The police won’t go on watching Cassandra and Tindra forever.”

  “I understand.” She looked at his clothes again. Out of everything she’d bought him, he had to pick that. He might as well be carrying a sign saying Dangerous and Wanted.

  “Come back in for a few minutes,” she said.

  “What for?”

  “I’m going to try to make you look a bit less suspicious.” If that’s actually possible, she added silently to herself.

  Nineteen

  “I can’t get over how peculiar you look.” The old man in the bed fiddled with his hookah. He put the mouthpiece between his cracked lips and took a couple of deep drags that made the water in the container bubble. He held the mouthpiece out toward Atif, who shook his head.

  “No, thanks.” He caught a glimpse of his own reflection in one of the many framed family portraits covering the walls of the rancid bedroom. Zio Erdun was right. He really did look very different. Natalie had shaved his beard off. Replaced his cap with a skater’s beanie that she pulled down over his deformed ear and bandage. She complemented this with a football shirt, a pair of baggy jeans, and a ton of leather bracelets that made him look like either a failed rapper or someone having a midlife crisis. But anything was better than looking like a wanted murderer.

  “You want to know what happened to Fouad, I suppose.” Zio Erdun was one of the few people who used Abu Hamsa’s real name. Abu Hamsa literally meant “Hamsa’s father.”

  Fouad’s firstborn son, Hamsa, had died in an accident. A drunk driver ran down the boy and his mother, Leyla, and was given eight months for causing death by dangerous driving. It was four years before someone out picking mushrooms found what was left of the drunk driver’s body. According to rumor, his fingers and toes had been cut off before he took a bullet to the head.

  Abu Hamsa was questioned, and obviously denied any involvement. He presented a solid alibi. But everyone knew it was him, and everyone knew who had wielded the pliers.

  Zio Erdun had been one of Abu Hamsa’s heavies. Someone Atif and plenty of others used to regard with equal amounts of fear and admiration. But there wasn’t much left of that man now. The body, once built like a block of cement, was now a skeleton. His transparent skin was pulled tight across his cheekbones and nose, and his fingers resembled bony claws. An elaborate drip beside the bed occasionally made small bleeping sounds to indicate that it had released another dose of painkillers, which explained the glassy expression in the sunken eyes. The old man was dying. And had been for some time.

  “Only if you feel you want to tell me,” Atif said. That wasn’t actually the only thing he wanted to know, but he had to be patient.

  The old man took another puff and squinted at him through the cloud rising from the hookah. The sweet smoke made Atif’s nostrils twitch. Marijuana mixed with tobacco.

  “You mean you’d go quietly if I chose to stay silent?” Zio Erdun winked at him. “You’re not usually the type to take no for an answer.”

  Atif shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose I’ve gotten older and wiser.”

  “Do you think that little bastard Gilsén would agree?” The old man cackled, but his laughter immediately turned into a violent coughing fit that left him gasping for breath. He gestured toward a table holding a plastic glass and some napkins. Atif handed them over and the old man coughed out a reddish-­yellow lump of phlegm into the glass before wiping the saliva from his beard.

  “Cancer,” he gasped. “Started in my prostate, of all places. The fuck gland, can you imagine? The doctors gave me three months to live, but that was over a year ago. Doctors—what the fuck do they know? I’m going to survive. Show them how wrong they are. You can see I’m winning, can’t you?”

  He coughed again and brought up more phlegm. He reached for a bottle of water and took a couple of deep swigs. Atif waited while Erdun composed himself again. Beneath the smell of the hookah he could detect other things. Urine, unwashed body, rotting flesh.

  “If anyone else had asked the same question as you, I’d have told them to go to hell. But you’ve always been a good boy, Atif. A man who keeps his word. Besides, I haven’t really got anything to lose by talking to you. I mean, what could possibly be worse than this?”

  The old man grinned, revealing a row of nicotine-yellow teeth. Atif wasn’t sure what to say.

  “Why was Abu Hamsa trying to steal money from people? He didn’t usually take that sort of risk.”

  The old man nodded. “Fouad was always smart. Never aimed too high, always took care to protect himself. He visited me a lot; used to sit on that stool there, just like you. He talked about packing it in, retiring. But the time wasn’t right. Business wasn’t going well. The cleaning company owed back taxes, he’d put a fair bit of money into a gym, and the Leyla Restaurant was swallowing money as usual. Of course Fouad should really have gotten out a long time ago . . .”

  The old man cleared his throat and took another puff on the hookah.

  “But he’d named the restaurant after Hamsa’s mother. In memory of happier times. So selling it wasn’t an option. He used to be able to cover the losses with other income, but then came the whole Janus business. Suddenly no one was doing deals anymore. Fouad was here just before Christmas. He didn’t say anything, but I could see he was worried. He needed cash, fast, to save him losing everything.”

  “And Gilsén offered a quick, easy solution?” Atif said.

  Zio Erdun took a sip of water.

  “Like I said, Fouad was a wise man. A cautious man. He should have been content with what
Gilsén was already delivering. And told the greedy little rat to stick to the agreement. But Fouad and his family were in danger of being left penniless. So he took the risk.”

  The old boy fell silent as his eyes drifted off.

  “And then Gilsén was caught,” Atif said. “I think Abu Hamsa tried to negotiate with the people they’d stolen from. Come to some sort of arrangement that could save their lives. Is that what happened?”

  The old man didn’t answer, just took another puff from the hookah.

  “He tried but he didn’t succeed,” Atif went on.

  “No, evidently he didn’t.”

  “Who shot Abu Hamsa, Zio?”

  Zio Erdun shrugged his shoulders. “There’s a guy called ‘the Sniper.’ Some relation of Eldar’s, I seem to remember. Your age, or thereabouts. We used him a couple of times. Smart, ice-cold, doesn’t make mistakes. Head shots are difficult; there aren’t many who’d take on a job like that.”

  “Who commissioned him?”

  There was a quiet knock on the door and the same young man who had reluctantly let Atif into the apartment stood in the doorway. He was holding a coffee tray in his hands. His eyes flitted between Atif and the old man.

  “Put it down there, Kenny.” Erdun gestured toward a small table, half covered by an array of drugs. The young man put the tray down and glowered at Atif. He had the sort of defiant look you only found in young men of twenty or so. As if the world belonged to them, and everyone else was making demands on their time and assets.

  “I need more tobacco,” Zio Erdun said. “Can you run down to the corner? Take some money from the bureau in the hall.”

  Kenny stood where he was for a few seconds. Then he turned around and sloped out of the room, slowly, to prove that he was going because he wanted to, not because he’d been told. Atif was seized by an almost irresistible urge to grab the young man’s trousers by the waist and hoist them up so they sat where they should.

  Zio Erdun nodded toward the door. “My grandson. His mother named him Kenny, thought a more Swedish-­sounding name would make things easier for him. Kenny . . .” He snorted. “That’s an English name, for fuck’s sake. And it didn’t help. He still spends most nights out. Dreams of becoming a real gangster.”

  “Bit like me, then,” Atif said. “And you too, perhaps?”

  “Yes, sadly.” Erdun sighed. “And look at what fine role models we are. I’m a skeleton in a diaper, and you look like a regular pussy.”

  The old man grinned again and Atif found himself smiling as well, albeit mostly out of politeness. There was something in the way Kenny had looked at him that he couldn’t quite let go of. He was sure Erdun’s grandson was the sort who eavesdropped behind doors if he got the chance. Atif’s face had been on the television and in the papers, and Zio Erdun had addressed him by name.

  He looked at the time on the screen of the cheap pay-as-you-go cell phone Natalie had given him. It would not make sense to stay much longer. He needed to get to the point, have his suspicions confirmed, and then ask the old man for help. Over the years he had done a number of favors for Zio Erdun. He had been wise enough never to turn him down and never to ask questions, never even ask for payment. Now he hoped that the old man would help him in return. Zio Erdun was old-school, still believed in all that business about honor.

  Atif thought about Tindra, shut up in the apartment while the police hung around in their cars and watched them from neighboring apartments. Watching, waiting for him to show up.

  “Who do you think commissioned the Sniper?” he repeated.

  Zio Erdun looked at him for a few seconds. “Why do you really want to know?”

  “Because the same people are threatening my family. Threatening me.”

  “And you want to strike first, just like in the old days?”

  Atif shook his head.

  “I want to get my family out and disappear. But to do that I need to know who’s after me. And I need to find someone who can get us passports. I was hoping you might be able to help with both.”

  The old man took another puff, then shook his head.

  “You’ve certainly changed.”

  Atif looked at his phone again. Seven minutes since Kenny walked out through the door. Plenty of time to make a call. He felt a sudden urge to grab the old man and shake some answers out of him. Then realized that probably wasn’t a good idea.

  Erdun moved his jaw sideways, as if he was ruminating over his words before uttering them.

  “What Fouad did was wrong. He was a man everyone trusted. Which made his fall from grace all the harder. Everyone turned against him. Do you understand what I mean, Atif?” There was a bitter note in the old man’s voice. “I can see that they had to act, but a man like Fouad shouldn’t have to die like that. If I’d been well enough . . .”

  He had another coughing fit. He cleared his throat deeply and spat a bloody lump of phlegm into the plastic glass. Ten minutes had passed. The smoke shop was in the same gray block as the apartment. Kenny should have been back by now.

  “Who were they, Zio?” Atif tried to sound calm.

  “Who do you think? Who would be forced to fight a war that couldn’t be won? Who would lose everything—their liveli­hood, their future, even their lives—for a stubborn old man’s mistake?”

  Atif sat stock-still. “You mean Abu Hamsa was sacrificed?”

  “What I mean is that Fouad’s daughter Susanna and that gorilla she married sat down and negotiated. To avoid war, they promised to punish Fouad for his betrayal and hand over the millions he and Gilsén had stolen. Maybe a little more as compensation for the trouble caused. And in return . . .”

  “In return, Susanna and Eldar were allowed to keep Abu Hamsa’s businesses,” Atif said.

  “Susanna is her father’s daughter. She knows that business comes first. She already runs the exchange bureaus where the money was laundered. Even if Fouad had managed to keep his and Gilsén’s project secret from her, a lot of people would assume that she knew. So she was forced to act quickly.” Erdun spat again. “Susanna has always been good at getting what she wanted, ever since she was little. The smartest member of the whole family.”

  “And now she’s managed to stay alive and keep the businesses.”

  “Yes, but there’s a problem.” Erdun grinned, showing his yellow teeth, and held a long, thin finger in the air. “You, Atif. You’re sitting on Gilsén’s millions, aren’t you? Without that money, Susanna and Eldar can’t keep their side of the bargain, and the people they’ve been negotiating with aren’t known for their patience. Another week, at most, then the deal will be as dead as Susanna and Eldar. Unless they find you first, of course. In which case I’ll see you all in hell soon enough.”

  The old man’s chest made an unpleasant rattling sound, and it took Atif a few moments to realize that it wasn’t another coughing fit but laughter.

  Twenty

  The subway station was ten minutes from Zio Erdun’s apartment. A quick walk between the huge gray concrete housing blocks. Or at least as quick as the infection in Atif’s body would allow.

  Dark walkways, rows of windows from which he could be watched as he followed the narrow path through the bushes. He had passed the smoke shop, where he peered in through the window. No sign of Kenny. The streetlamps were casting a pale light across the path. That hardly helped his situation. It made him perfectly visible and simultaneously ruined his night vision. And made the shadows between the bushes and trees impenetrable.

  A scraping noise made him turn around. It sounded like a shoe dragging on asphalt. But he couldn’t see anyone on the path either up ahead or behind him. He tried to lengthen his stride, but his wounded foot protested. In a couple of hundred meters he would have reached the station.

  They were waiting for him just around the bend. Three guys, two of them sitting on the back of a bench. The third w
as standing in the middle of the path. Kenny, of course.

  Atif turned his head slightly. Saw that another two had appeared behind him, cutting off his escape route. They all looked roughly the same. Young, no more than eighteen, twenty years old, with the same defiant look as Kenny. Hoodies, jeans or sweatpants, with the crotch pulled halfway down to their skinny knees. Clenched fists in pockets; knife or gun? Probably the latter. But which one was carrying it?

  “Hey, man,” Kenny said as Atif approached. “Stop. We want to talk to you!”

  Atif stopped. The pair on the bench jumped down and sauntered over to him. Relaxed, confident. This was their home turf, and they were five against one.

  “Isn’t your grandfather waiting for you?” he said quietly.

  Kenny snorted. “The old man hardly knows what day it is. His home nurse will be there soon to change his diaper.”

  “You shouldn’t talk about Zio Erdun like that.”

  Kenny spat on the path, close enough to spatter Atif’s shoe.

  “And what the fuck do you know about that? The old man’s a wreck. Should have been dead long ago. Would have been best for everyone.”

  “We were thinking of giving you a lift home,” said one of the guys who’d been sitting on the bench. Somalis, Atif guessed. Or possibly Eritreans.

  Atif shrugged and took a step toward him. “Okay. Where’s the car?”

  “Er . . . over there.”

  Atif’s willingness seemed to surprise the Somali.

  “So what are we waiting for?” Atif started to walk in the direction indicated by the Somali, forcing the guy to step aside to let him past. It took a couple of meters for them to catch up with him, the Somali on one side, Kenny on the other. The other three lumbered along obediently behind them. Atif could hear them whispering excitedly.

  By the time they reached the parking lot, their confusion had switched to triumph. Kenny unlocked a red Mazda and jumped into the driver’s seat. One gone, four left outside the car. Three hands still in jacket pockets. The Somali opened one of the back doors and let one of his friends in.