The barrier started to move, slowly and jerkily. Just an inch at a time, as if it didn’t really want to let him go.
Stenberg turned the stereo on and tried to find something to lift his mood. The intro kicked in and the stereo began to count the seconds.
0.01.
0.02.
0.03.
As soon as the gap under the barrier was big enough he sent the car rolling. Relief radiated through his body. He slowed down just before the ramp reached street level. His hands were still shaking, making it hard for him to fasten his seat belt.
The music stopped abruptly, making Stenberg raise his head. The timer had stopped but the play symbol was still illuminated. Odd. Something white fluttered at the corner of his eye, hovering in the air just above the hood of the car.
A plastic bag, he found himself thinking. But the object was far too large. The stereo was still silent, the time on the display static. And all of a sudden Stenberg realized what was happening. He realized where the car was, and what the large, white, fluttering object in the air actually was.
He shut his eyes, clutched the steering wheel, and felt an icy chill spread from his stomach and up through his chest. The timer on the stereo suddenly came back to life and the music carried on. It was only drowned out by the sound of Sophie Thorning’s body as it thudded into the hood of the car.
ONE
Atif leaned back in the uncomfortable chair. In spite of the snow and cold outside, the air in the windowless little room felt stuffy. The smell of burned coffee, various bodily excretions, and general hopelessness was very familiar. You could probably find the same thing in police stations all over the world.
He was hungry, and his neck and shoulders were stiff after the long journey. He hated flying, hated putting his life in other people’s hands.
“Name?” the policeman sitting opposite him asked.
“It says in there.” Atif nodded toward the red passport on the table between them. The policeman, a fleshy little man in his sixties with thinning hair, who had introduced himself as Bengtsson, didn’t reply. In fact he didn’t even look up, just went on leafing through the folder he had in his lap.
Atif sighed.
“Atif Mohammed Kassab,” he said.
“Age?”
“I’m forty-six, born June nineteenth. Midsummer’s Eve . . .” He wasn’t really sure why he added this last remark. But the policeman looked up at last.
“What?”
“June nineteenth,” Atif said. It had been several years since he had last spoken Swedish. The words felt clumsy, his pronunciation seemed out of synch, like all the dubbed films on television back home. “Once every seven years it’s Midsummer’s Eve.”
The policeman stared at him through his small reading glasses. The smell of polyester, sweat, and coffee breath was slowly creeping across the table. Atif sighed again.
“Okay, Bengtsson, it’s been over an hour since you stopped me at passport control. I flew in from Iraq so you suspect my passport is fake, or that it’s genuine but not mine.”
He paused, thinking how much he’d like a hamburger right now. The look on the policeman’s face remained impassive.
“I’m tired and hungry, so maybe we could do the quick version?” Atif went on. His voice felt less out of synch already, the words coming more easily.
“My name is Atif Kassab, and I was born in Iraq. My dad died when I was little and my mom brought me to Sweden. She got married again, to a relative. When I was twelve he went off to the USA, leaving me, Mom, and my newborn younger brother. But by then at least we were Swedish citizens so we didn’t get thrown out.”
“So you say.” The policeman was looking down at his file again. “According to the National ID database, Atif Mohammed Kassab has emigrated.”
“That’s right. About seven years ago,” Atif said.
“And since then you’ve been living . . . ?” Bengtsson raised his eyebrows slightly.
“In Iraq.”
“Where in Iraq?”
Atif frowned. “How do you mean?”
The policeman slowly raised one hand and took off his glasses.
“Because the Atif Mohammed Kassab who you claim to be has a pretty impressive criminal record.” He gestured toward the file with his glasses.
“And?” Atif shrugged his shoulders.
“Well, if you really are Atif Mohammed Kassab, it’s in the interests of the police to find out a bit more about you. Where you’ve been living, what you’ve been doing, whom you’ve spent time with.”
“I’ve got a Swedish passport, I’m a Swedish citizen. I’m not obliged to say a fu—” Atif interrupted himself midsentence and pinched the top of his nose. It was almost eleven o’clock in the evening now. Almost ten hours since he last had any proper food.
“If we suspect that there’s anything funny going on, we can put you on the next plane back to Iraq. There’s a flight first thing tomorrow morning.”
The fat little policeman clasped his hands together behind his neck and slowly stretched. The sweat stains under his arms were clearly visible on his shirt.
“Or we could lock you in a cell for a few days,” he went on. “While we compare your fingerprints with the database. That sort of thing can take a while, obviously.” The policeman grinned.
Atif was on the point of saying something but thought better of it. That last threat was probably a bluff. Even if the fat little cop still doubted that his passport was genuine, he must have realized by now that Atif wasn’t trying to sneak into the country illegally. But, on the other hand, he had no wish to end up in a cell. Besides, he had an appointment to keep.
Atif took a deep breath. This whole contest in who could piss farthest was actually pretty pointless. He had nothing to lose by cooperating. Being awkward was mostly just a reflex. But things were different now. He was older, wiser. Besides, he really wanted that hamburger. A supersize meal with loads of fries and a large Coke with ice.
“Najaf,” he said. “It’s in western Iraq. That’s where my family’s from. Mom got sick and wanted to move back home. I went as well, to help her, and then I stayed on.” He shrugged slightly and decided to stop at that. The policeman nodded almost imperceptibly and jotted something down in his file.
“And what has someone like you been doing with his time down there . . . ?”
Atif paused a couple of seconds, thought about lying but changed his mind. Someone like you . . . He put his hand in the inside pocket of his jacket and waited until the policeman looked up.
“I’m a police officer,” he said as he opened the leather wallet containing his ID card and little metal badge and put it on the table.
• • •
For once, Detective Inspector Kenneth Bengtsson wasn’t sure what to think. His colleague at the passport desk had sounded one hundred percent certain when he handed the case over. A fake passport, well made, probably a real one with the photograph replaced. The fact that the passport’s original owner turned out to be a real troublemaker seemed to support the theory. A genuine Swedish passport was worth several thousand kronor if you had the right contacts. And all the information they had indicated that Atif Kassab had plenty of the right contacts.
But the man claiming to be Kassab wasn’t a typical illegal immigrant with the usual staccato sentences learned by rote. This man’s Swedish was as good as his. A bit rusty, maybe, as if he hadn’t used it for a while.
The only picture they had of Atif Kassab in their files was more than ten years old and hadn’t been improved by being sent by fax. Kassab’s DNA and fingerprints were obviously on file, but Bengtsson had no great desire to grapple with the ink roller to get prints for a comparison. He often couldn’t help laughing when the cops in a television show did a bit of tapping at a computer and managed to bring up fingerprints, addresses, pictures of friends, shoe sizes, and anything else that might be remotely useful. In Bengtsson’s world, ink, paper, and manual comparisons with a magnifying glass were still the
order of the day. Unless you wanted to wait for forensics to get around to it.
So he preferred to rely on his own personal judgment when trying to identify people. The information in the database was seldom as exhaustive as it was in this case. He had the printouts in the folder on his lap. He had already ticked off three things.
Age: 46.
Height: 6 feet 5 inches.
Eye color: brown.
But next to the information about build and hair color he had put little question marks. The man in the grainy photograph who was staring arrogantly into the camera had long, slicked-back hair and a little goatee beard that did nothing to hide a serious double chin. He looked just like the troublemaker his police record suggested he was, even down to the thick gold chain around his neck.
But the man sitting opposite Bengtsson had military-style cropped hair, and the little that could be seen was going gray. But the stubble on his cheeks was still dark, so, after some hesitation, Bengtsson changed one of the question marks to another tick.
And this man wasn’t fat, not remotely. He was big, certainly, probably weighed in at around two hundred and twenty pounds. But the word stocky didn’t really fit. Bengtsson wrote very fit in the margin, then changed his mind. The words made him think of the gym-pumped look that bros who’d just finished their national service usually had. Bengtsson wrote in very good shape instead and found himself smiling at the description. The man’s posture was good, the look in his eyes alert, and even if Bengtsson had eventually managed to wind him up, he had been smart enough to calm himself down.
Bengtsson had noticed that the man’s left ear was slightly deformed. A bit of cartilage was missing from the back, and he had a scar stretching from his jaw down to his neck that was almost bare of stubble. The description he had in his lap said nothing about injuries or scars. But, on the other hand, it wasn’t difficult to imagine how they might have come about.
Bengtsson inspected the wallet containing the metal badge from all angles. Looked at the ID card with its picture of the man wearing a uniform.
Sgt. Atif M. Kassab.
6th Army div.
MP. Bat.
It was similar to Bengtsson’s own official ID, but the shiny metal badge in the shape of a shield was clearly modeled on the American version. It seemed genuine, but obviously he couldn’t be sure.
“Military police, you say . . .” Bengtsson said, putting the leather folder down. He couldn’t help smiling to himself. Talk about setting the wolf to watch the sheep.
“And how did you end up in that job, if you don’t mind my asking? I mean, with your background?”
“A relative recommended me. The army needed people,” Atif said.
“No, no, I get that bit,” Bengtsson said. “What I’m wondering is why you chose to take the job? Change sides?” The policeman put his file on the table and leaned forward.
Atif shrugged. He could say that it was his mom’s fault. That she refused to let him pay for her little room in the nursing home unless the money had been earned honestly. And what could be more honorable than being a police officer? Besides, he liked his job, he was good at it. But Atif had already revealed more than he had expected to, so this fat little cop would have to go on wondering about his motives.
Silence fell in the room. Atif took a few sips of water from the little plastic cup on the table. Bengtsson went on staring at him for a good while.
“Okay, I believe you,” the policeman said, throwing his hands out. “Let’s go and get your bag, then I’ll take you through to the arrivals hall. Welcome home to Sweden.”
He made a short note in the file, closed it, and stood up. Atif got quickly to his feet. He was thinking of the hamburger joint between the terminals. He hoped it was open all night.
“Just one last thing,” Bengtsson said.
“Sure.”
“Why have you come back? To Sweden, I mean. Why now?”
Atif paused a few seconds before replying. It would be easiest to lie. His former self would have done just that without blinking. Maybe that was why he chose not to.
“I’m here to bury my younger brother,” he said.
“Sorry to hear that,” Bengtsson said.
Atif made a slight move toward the door, hoping the policeman would do the same. And that he would not ask the logical follow-up question. But he could see from the man’s eyes that it was already on its way.
“How did he die?” Bengtsson said. “Your younger brother, I mean. You said you were twelve when he was born, and you’re forty-six now, so your brother can’t have even been thirty-five?”
Atif stopped. He wished he’d followed his instincts and kept his mouth shut. He bowed his head and looked up at the policeman.
“Adnan was murdered,” he said.
TWO
David Sarac is still floating. Sometimes he thinks he’s dead, at times he’s actually completely convinced that he is. It doesn’t bother him. If this is death, then I daresay I can live with it, he thinks. But before he has time to laugh at his little joke, the feeling is gone. Vanished into a part of his brain to which he no longer has access.
His body is lying in a bed; he gradually realizes this. But he doesn’t manage to make sense of much more than that. Beyond the fact that his name is David Sarac, that he’s a police officer, and that he’s been in some sort of accident.
Various people come and go in the room, mostly white coats that poke and pull him about, which ought to mean he isn’t dead. Not yet, anyway. But sometimes he notices the presence of other people, faceless figures that keep their distance. White shirts and blue uniforms with gold insignia, interspersed with a few dark suits. Most of them are somber and seem a bit lost. As if they’re not quite sure what’s expected of them.
But the others feel all the more troubling. Their vigor frightens him, but he still can’t help looking at them more closely. It was from one of them that he heard the name.
“Do we know anything more about—Janus . . . ?”
Janus.
The name floats in his consciousness, making it impossible for him to rest properly. But no matter how hard he tries to remember, the answer is beyond reach.
“Need to get this fucking mess cleared up,” a faceless figure whispered at one point, and, oddly enough, that particular memory hasn’t faded. Maybe the remark was addressed directly at him? Is that why his body doesn’t want to give up, because he hasn’t finished his mission? Because there are still some loose ends?
Things that need to be . . . cleared up?
• • •
Atif woke up to find someone prodding him. It took him a few moments to realize where he was. On the sofa in Adnan’s apartment. Or, to be more accurate, Cassandra and Tindra’s apartment, seeing as Adnan was lying in cold storage at the undertaker’s.
He had gone out like a light the moment his head hit the pillow, which was pretty unusual. Someone prodded Atif again and he rolled over.
“What’s that?” Tindra asked, pointing at a large scar on Atif’s right shoulder. A patch of scar tissue the size of a hand, wrinkled and slightly discolored.
“An old tattoo,” Atif said.
“Like the one Daddy’s got?” Tindra tilted her little blond head to one side and looked at him.
“Something like that,” he replied. “Is your mom up yet?”
Tindra shook her head.
“Not yet.”
“But you’re already up, all on your own?”
She shook her head again and looked serious for a moment.
“We’re both awake, Amu.” She laughed. She used the Arabic word for uncle, and Atif realized he liked it. He pushed the covers back and sat up.
“So you know who I am?” he said.
This time she nodded.
“Of course I know. Daddy’s got a picture of you in his phone. And me . . . but lots more of me,” she added.
“Of course he has,” Atif said. “A pretty girl like you.”
Tindra looked diffe
rent in real life, far more animated than in the digital prints with which he had lined his mother’s little room at the nursing home. The girl was wearing a washed-out nightdress with a picture of some cartoon character he didn’t recognize. It looked as if she’d tied her hair up in two untidy ponytails herself. You’ve got your mom’s skin, Atif thought. But your dad’s eyes.
“Amu, can you make pancakes? Daddy always makes pancakes when he’s home. With jam and sugar.”
Atif got up from the sofa and stroked her cheek. He liked the way she frowned slightly when she asked for something. Adnan had done the same thing when he was little.
“Of course I can, sweetheart. I taught your dad everything he knows.” Atif regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth.
• • •
Tindra had already eaten three whole pancakes by the time Cassandra appeared at the door of the kitchen.
“Good morning,” Atif said.
“Mmm . . .” She bent over and kissed Tindra on the head. Atif glanced at her. He had known Cassandra before she and Adnan started dating. Back then her name had been Malin, someone’s plain little sister, slaving away in the city’s bars to earn enough money for a pair of silicone breasts and a few other physical enhancements.
Then she had changed her name, appeared in a couple of episodes of some forgotten reality show, and picked up some work as a glamour model. Car shows, VIP events, nightclub appearances, and a bit of associated activity. In those days she had been very attractive, if you liked nightclub blondes. Adnan evidently did. He had been a bouncer at a few fashionable clubs, where he helped fend off drunk jerks who got too handsy. He was good-looking, and every so often had plenty of money. And he was funny. He could entertain a whole room when he was in the mood.
Having a girlfriend whom other men would drool over suited Adnan, and when Tindra was born his world must have looked pretty much perfect. But that was several years ago now, and Cassandra’s glitzy glamour had started to fade. Wrinkles at the corners of her mouth from smoking, sallow skin, tired eyes. One of the rectangular false nails on her left hand was missing and the dark roots were clearly visible in her blond hair.
MemoRandom: A Thriller Page 3
