Ultimatum

by Anders de la Motte

They could go to hell, the both of them. He might even give them a bit of a nudge in that direction. He nodded to the two men and left the room, then took the elevator all the way down to the garage and managed, as luck would have it, to avoid running into any other gleefully malicious colleagues.

  His cell phone rang the moment he sat in the driver’s seat.

  “Oscar, it’s your mother. The woman from the bank has called again. They’ve found another card, with a debt of almost fifty thousand. I thought you said you were going to take care of this.”

  “I am.”

  “In that case, I suggest you try a little harder. Your father was always very particular about settling bills on time. In this family we always do the right thing. Always, do you hear?”

  Wallin clenched his jaw so tightly, he could hear his teeth creak. Natalie. How dare she ignore him? Carry on even though he’d warned her? Even though he was watching her?

  “Don’t worry, Mom,” he said. “I’ll take care of it. There won’t be any more, I promise. Have a cup of tea and try to calm down, and I’ll phone you this evening.”

  He ended the call before she had time to reply, threw the phone down on the passenger seat, and punched the steering wheel with his fists. Once, twice, three, four, five times. He didn’t stop until his hands hurt and he was wet with sweat.

  They were underestimating him. Thought they could walk all over him. Stenberg, Kollander, Pärson, even Natalie. But enough was enough. Time to show them who was really in charge.

  He pulled out the pay-as-you-go cell phone he kept in the glove compartment, switched it on, and pulled up a number. He wound his window down a little to clear the condensation from the windshield. Or possibly the faint smell of smoke he thought he could detect inside the car. The smell of wood slowly being consumed by fire.

  “This is Oscar Wallin,” he said when the woman at the other end answered. “Your father and I did a fair amount of business together. You might remember me. I can help you get rid of a problem. But you’ll have to do the same for me.”

  • • •

  The Sniper was sitting on his camp bed in the little basement room. From the den he could hear the sound of the video game that the three men played pretty much around the clock. Could hear them squabbling. When he had moved in it had sounded good-natured, but it had grown more and more irritable and volatile. The three men on the sofa saw themselves as soldiers. They kept their guns out to show that they were ready to fight. But none of them understood what a challenge it was simply having to wait. Wait for an attack that might come at any moment, or perhaps never. That was why they were drinking more, smoking more cigarettes, arguing more volubly about the video game.

  He preferred to take refuge in the Bible. He read the passages Father Ivor had underlined over and over again.

  Blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered.

  They had said it would be no longer than a week before the danger passed. A week when he would have to live in the little cubbyhole in the basement. Just over two weeks had passed already. He had done his job, exactly as agreed. Abu Hamsa was dead. But something had gone wrong, and now they were all in danger.

  He should have gone home. Explained to them that his debt was paid the moment Abu Hamsa died. But he knew that wasn’t true, that he couldn’t leave until everything was finished here, one way or another. Eldar Jafarov was a gorilla, the sort of man who mistook fear for respect. Who thought it was something that could be instilled, not earned. Eldar’s uncle had been the opposite. One of the finest men the Sniper had ever known. A man who had saved his life several times. Seb Jafarov was dead, blown to pieces by a land mine many years ago. But the Sniper’s debt to him remained. Forced him to sit here, waiting patiently and reading his Bible.

  Blessed is the man unto whom the Lord imputeth not iniquity, and in whose spirit there is no guile.

  In the other room the game went quiet and he heard ­Susanna’s voice. Then the sound of movement. The clatter of guns and bulletproof vests, voices full of expectation, excitement.

  A quick knock, then Susanna was standing in the doorway. She was beautiful, he thought. In a cruel way, rather like a bird of prey. The beauty of a creature whose entire existence was devoted to ensuring its own survival.

  “We’ve received a tip-off,” she said. “From an old associate of my father’s. He says he knows where Cassandra and Tindra are hiding. Atif is probably there too.”

  The Sniper nodded and slowly put his Bible away.

  “I’ve got a special assignment for you,” she said. “Something I had to promise in return. There’s someone else who has to die.”

  Forty-Two

  The passports were in her inside pocket, her suitcase in the trunk. There was a fresh bundle of notes in her wallet, courtesy of Wallin’s mother. All that remained was a quick detour to the Scout cabin to pick up her passengers, then it was next stop Arlanda. Passport Guy’s duplicity had cost them half the afternoon, but they could still catch the evening flight to Zürich and all be somewhere safe within a matter of hours.

  She was approaching the turnoff. Natalie clicked the turn signal on, then drove onto the narrow gravel track. By this time tomorrow she’d be on a plane to Thailand, and everything would be over.

  She parked the car in the usual place. Atif met her in the doorway, looking over her shoulder. He was holding a pistol by his hip, as if he didn’t want to make a fuss about having a gun. She had told him what had happened with the passports over the phone, and it had obviously unsettled him.

  “You’re sure no one followed you here?”

  “Quite sure.”

  He scanned the garden, listening. Then he turned to her and discreetly slipped the gun into his waistband. She handed the passports over. Something approaching a smile crossed his face, but he didn’t say anything.

  Cassandra appeared at Atif’s side.

  “Have you got them?”

  Atif gave her two of the passports. She opened them, quickly leafed through the pages as if she didn’t entirely believe him. Then she looked up. The relief in her face was unmistakable. Her chin trembled and for a moment it looked as if she was going to cry.

  Cassandra took a step forward, put her arms around Natalie, and hugged her. Hard, as if she really meant it.

  “Thank you. You’ve saved our lives,” she whispered in Natalie’s ear.

  Natalie swallowed and didn’t really know what to say.

  “Time to go,” Atif said. He picked up a bag that was standing in the hall, opened the door, and began to walk toward the car.

  • • •

  When Atif was halfway to the car, he heard the sound of an engine approaching. It wasn’t any of the neighbors’ cars. After a few days there he knew how they sounded. This one was larger, the sound more muffled. He looked up at the trees hiding the track, trying to spot any movement.

  The sound of the engine stopped abruptly and everything went quiet. All he could hear was the chirping of crickets. He stood still for a few moments, listening for any noises from the track. He thought he could make out car doors opening and closing.

  He put the bag down, turned around, and walked back to the cabin. He walked carefully so as not to give himself away. He shut the door behind him and locked it.

  “We’ve got a problem,” he told Natalie.

  “Yes, I kind of realized that.” She nodded toward the pistol, which was back in his hand.

  “Take the girls into the back room. Lock the door and stay there. If you don’t hear anything within five minutes, climb out of the window and go down to the jetty. Swim across the lake if you have to.”

  “What about Tindra?”

  “She can do it, she’s a strong swimmer.”

  “But isn’t it better to—”

  Atif shook his head. “We haven’t got time to argue. The track is blocked an
d we don’t know which direction they’re coming from, except that it’s unlikely to be from the lake. So that’s the safest escape route.”

  “Okay, what about you? What are you going to do?”

  He didn’t answer. They looked at each other for a few moments.

  “Take care,” she said.

  Atif realized to his surprise that she was blushing slightly. All of a sudden he didn’t know what to say.

  “Okay” was the best he could come up with. Then realized how empty it sounded.

  He slipped out through the door and heard Natalie lock it from inside. The garden was completely open except for a few log benches arranged around a campfire. The only decent hiding places were inside the cabin or among the trees between the cabin and the jetty. Neither of those was any good. He could hear rustling from the bushes leading up to the track. A branch snapping under someone’s foot. If they were cops, they probably wouldn’t come much closer. They’d wait until it got dark instead. Keep an eye on the cabin, find out if he was really there before calling for backup. He was a cop killer, and that demanded dogs, helicopters, a rapid response team. But he had a feeling that the men approaching the cabin weren’t cops. And that they weren’t planning to wait.

  He crept slowly toward Natalie’s car. Lay down on his stomach and crawled underneath it. He pressed himself as close to the ground as he could. He didn’t have to wait long. Two dark-clad figures appeared up by the track. Well-built men, one of them holding a shotgun, the other a pistol. They moved slowly, at a crouch, stepping carefully, like soldiers advancing. Another branch snapped in among the bushes. The men on the track stopped and whispered to each other.

  Two attackers on the track, at least one more making his way through the bushes toward the garden, where he’d have a clear line of sight across the grass to the side of the cabin. But he’d have to go a fair way to be able to see around the corner to where the path led down to the lake.

  The men on the track started moving again. They approached the car slowly. But their attention was focused on the cabin and the garden. They didn’t see him lying there. Atif felt his pulse quicken. He tried to take deep, silent breaths to calm it down. Adrenaline would make his hands shake, and the battered Zastava he had taken from the Somali was already hard enough to fire.

  The men were holding their weapons as if they knew what they were doing. Pointing them toward their target instead of up in the air or down at the ground, the way people did in films. As they got closer their upper bodies disappeared from view, and all he could see were their boots and the bottom of their legs.

  When they reached the car the men split up to go around it. They were taking short steps as they approached the cabin.

  Atif shot the first man’s foot from a distance of mere centimeters. He was almost touching his leather boots with the barrel of the pistol when he fired. He didn’t wait to see the result and crawled over to his left instead. He heard a howl behind him as he fired two rapid shots at the second man’s feet and banged his head on the bottom of the car. He’d missed, or at least thought he had.

  He grabbed the rear axle and pulled himself out behind the car. He pressed his back against the bumper. There was another howl, then a pistol shot rang out. It cut straight through the body of the car and came out the other side, just centimeters from Atif’s head. Crouching down, he went around the right-hand side of the car and saw the man whose foot he had shot trying to stand up. Atif fired another two shots, and at least one of them hit. The man staggered but, weirdly, didn’t fall. Instead he turned and raised his gun toward Atif.

  Atif squeezed the trigger again. Nothing happened. The damn pistol had jammed. He threw himself behind the car again. A bullet hissed past, half a meter away, then another one. The man he had just shot yelled something at his partner, then fired another shot in Atif’s direction.

  Atif tugged at the bolt of the battered pistol. A cartridge that had got stuck in the chamber came loose and bounced up toward him before disappearing into the gravel.

  Another shot, a dull, flat thump, unlike the distinct cough of the pistol, and the car lurched, sending a shower of plastic and fragments of metal over Atif’s hiding place. He felt a sting at the back of his neck, then a warm, familiar sensation slowly spreading down his back. The pain was a two, more irritating than anything.

  He didn’t bother to investigate the injury. His surprise ambush had failed. His two attackers were still able to fight, the third man was bound to be rushing toward them through the bushes, and now he was trapped behind the car. His heart was pounding uncontrollably in his chest, and his hands were shaking.

  Another shot turned the rear right-hand corner of the car into a fog of plastic and metal. Atif threw himself in that direction. He saw a dark silhouette just a meter or so away and fired, then landed flat on his side on the gravel. He heard a scream of pain, then the thud of a body falling. He rolled toward the ditch behind him, feeling the rush of air as a bullet flew past his face. Then another one, which didn’t.

  The shot felt like being punched, almost sounded like it too, but strangely enough he didn’t feel any pain. He rolled down into the ditch and pressed his fingers to his cheek. He could feel the hole, the flap of skin, the stumps of teeth inside. The same on the other side where the bullet had exited.

  Stumbling steps were approaching on the track. He managed to raise his gun, then realized that he’d lost track of how many shots he had fired.

  A dark shape appeared at the edge of the ditch. Atif saw a pistol aimed at him and fired his own without thinking. The cracks of the two pistols came so close together that they sounded like a single shot.

  Forty-Three

  The Sniper was lying in position on the camping mat. He’d unfolded the rifle’s supports, adjusted the telescopic sight, taking the distance, wind, and angle into account. The exchange of fire made him scan the facade of the cabin through the sight, but because the gunfight seemed to be taking place on the other side of the building, he was only able to hear it.

  He went back to looking at the two small, dark windows. For some reason Father Ivor’s voice appeared in his head.

  Do you have regrets, my son?

  He would probably regret this—he knew that already. But he had no choice. He owed it to Seb to complete his mission.

  Do you have regrets?

  The Sniper screwed his eyes shut a couple of times and managed to make the voice in his head stop. He returned to studying the little windows through the telescopic sight.

  • • •

  “We have to go! Right now!” Cassandra’s eyes were wide open. Her voice muffled by terror.

  The gunfire outside had made them all instinctively curl up on the floor, Cassandra with her arms around Tindra, and Natalie with her arms around both of them. Natalie looked at her watch. Her chest felt tight with fear, making it hard to breathe. Five minutes, Atif had said. That had passed already. She stood up, went over to one of the windows, and tugged at the catches. But the window was stuck.

  There was a crash from the main room. She guessed it came from the front door.

  Then one catch came loose. The sharp metal cut into her thumb. Someone yanked at the handle of the bedroom door.

  “Open up, for fuck’s sake, Cassandra!”

  “That’s Eldar,” Cassandra said. “Susanna’s husband. Atif must be . . .” She wrapped her arms even more tightly around Tindra. Buried the girl’s head against her chest.

  “Open the fucking door!”

  The handle rattled up and down, and the flimsy door bowed as the man outside pulled at it.

  Natalie made one last attempt at the window. But the top catch refused to budge. She heard the bedroom door creak and realized it was going to give way at any moment.

  She ran over and put her shoulder to it, waiting for the handle to go up before quickly turning the key and shoving with all her might. A
s Eldar pushed the handle down and pulled once more, the door flew open and he staggered backward. Natalie flew at him, colliding with his chest. She knocked him back and over one of the heavy benches, with her on top of him.

  “Run!” she yelled at Cassandra. “Now!”

  She thrust her fingers into Eldar’s face, trying to scratch his eyes. The hand clutching the pistol came flying toward her, and she only half managed to duck. The blow struck her on the ear, making her feel giddy. It would be a matter of seconds before Eldar regained his balance and began to pummel her with considerably more force and better aim.

  She heard Tindra scream out loud, and as she reflexively turned her head, Eldar grabbed her by the jaw with his left hand and lifted her up. He squeezed and her vision started to fade. She waved her arms wildly, reaching toward his face. But Eldar was much too strong. She saw him taking aim to smash her in the head with the pistol. She closed her eyes and waited for the blow. For the darkness.

  But instead Eldar let out a howl of pain. She opened her eyes and saw Cassandra clinging to his right arm, sinking her perfect white teeth into the hand holding the pistol. But Eldar refused to relinquish the gun, braced himself against the floor, and struggled to his feet, with Cassandra hanging from his right hand and Natalie still on his lap. His grip on her throat was getting tighter. Her feet left the ground and her field of vision narrowed. She flailed with her arm and touched something with the back of her hand. One of the big, glazed Höganäs pots on the table.

  Eldar jerked his body and sent Cassandra flying as if she were a rag doll. He took aim again to hit Natalie in the head with the pistol. She met his gaze, saw the rage and hatred in his eyes. Then the surprise as she smashed the pot against his head.

  The pot must have had a crack in it already. It shattered, and in her hand she was holding a long shard. Eldar’s head fell back, blood pouring from a deep wound in his forehead. But he didn’t fall, just shook his head, straightened up, and raised the pistol a third time.

  Cassandra screamed, a scream so shrill that it was painful to hear, and Natalie struck again, helplessly, because her strength was almost gone. She hit Eldar above his left eye, and the long, sharp piece of pottery forced its way in until her knuckles were touching his brow.