MemoRandom: A Thriller

by Anders de la Motte

  Sarac gulped again and tried to moisten his lips. But his tongue felt as if it were glued to the roof of his mouth.

  “Forty years in the force, only three left to retirement. None of that would count for anything when it comes to Operation Clean Threshold. Just look at what they did with the Duke. The district commissioner has set her sights on becoming the next national police chief, and nothing’s allowed to spoil her pitch. Nothing!” Bergh’s face was now bright red, and his tired eyes looked worried. Almost frightened.

  “Well, I, er . . .” Sarac tried to say something but his voice cracked. He cleared his throat, once, then several more times. He suddenly noticed that his right hand was cramping. He slowly forced it open and glanced down at the crumpled piece of paper.

  “I trusted you, David,” Bergh said. “I didn’t ask any questions, I let you run your own race.” A little drop of saliva flew out of his mouth and landed in front of Sarac. “Up to now the results have been fantastic, but now you’ve got to explain what’s going on. The missing list, and your crash. That can’t be a coincidence. Someone’s after you, David. And after your CI.”

  Sarac swallowed again, trying in vain to moisten his mouth and lips.

  “Do you remember what job you were working on?” Bergh hissed. “Was it weapons, drugs? What instructions had you given your CI? Who was he targeting? For Christ sake, you must remember something?!”

  More voices in the corridor, closer this time. Bergh spun around toward the door.

  The scrap of paper in Sarac’s hand gradually unfurled. He could see some of the writing. But it wasn’t the nurse’s even handwriting he could see. There was something written on the back of the paper. Jagged capitals that looked as if they had been written with a lot of effort.

  EVERYONE IS LYING

  DON’T TRUST ANYONE!

  Bergh turned back to Sarac, who quickly slid his hand back under the covers. The voices in the corridor were clearly audible now. One of them belonged to Dr. Vestman.

  “You have to hand him over, David,” Bergh hissed in his ear. “I can protect him, you—the whole department. But you have to give me Janus!”

  SIX

  The smell of perfume lay heavy in the little entrance hall to the chapel. About fifty people in total, Atif estimated. Considerably more than he had thought at first. A seventy-thirty split between men and women. Almost all of them were younger than he was; a few of them didn’t look like they were even twenty-five. More than half the men had gym-pumped bodies and a swaggering walk. They were also relatively smart and well turned out. There were a couple in tracksuits and a few more in jeans and hoodies, with T-shirts underneath with gang symbols on them. But most of them were, like him, dressed in cheap black suits from Dressman. Diamond earrings, gold necklaces and bracelets—all the predictable gangster accessories. Atif didn’t recognize any of the men, but he still knew exactly who they were. Or rather, who they were trying to be.

  Did I used to be like that? Did you, Adnan? Silly question . . .

  They had all shaken his hand, fixing their eyes on him and giving it a good squeeze. To show that they didn’t back down for anything, never showed any cowardice. But at least half of them had had sweaty palms and not even their overwhelming aftershave could hide the smell of fear. The first of them had made the mistake of attempting some sort of ghetto hug. But Atif had been prepared; he locked his lower arm, and stopped the man halfway. He had given him a quick look, which the man had been smart enough to pick up. The rest of them figured out the rules, even the women.

  It was different with Cassandra; she hugged them all and took her time over it. She let them kiss her on both cheeks and seemed to enjoy being the center of attention in her role as the grieving widow.

  He had exchanged a few words with Cassandra’s parents and some of the older guests. Naturally they had all said nice things about Adnan. How pleasant and considerate he was, how much he loved his family. Atif had listened, knowing full well that they weren’t just the usual funeral clichés. Adnan had been an easy person to like, he always had been. Open, cheerful, funny, loyal. He could think of a whole heap of adjectives.

  Atif slid over to the coffee machine in one corner of the hall, put in a ten-kronor coin, and waited as the machine set to work. He tried to force his mind to change track. Soon he would be sitting on the plane.

  A plastic mug slid out, then the machine squeezed out a thin brown trickle. The mug filled slowly, as if the huge machine were really doing its best to produce some liquid.

  “Atif, my friend.”

  With the plastic mug in his hand he turned around. He had identified the hoarse, rasping voice before he saw the familiar face. He couldn’t help smiling.

  “Abu Hamsa!”

  He leaned forward and let the fat little man kiss him on both cheeks. Abu Hamsa was an old friend. Atif’s mother had worked in one of his bars a long time ago. Atif, and later Adnan, used to hang out there after school. Running small errands in exchange for the occasional bar of chocolate or can of cola. Hamsa was one of the old guard. He owned a couple of neighborhood bars, a few exchange bureaus, and loaned out money—no champagne orgies or luxury villas, no overblown signs of success. Nothing to attract the attention of the police, or anyone else, for that matter.

  “Envy, boys . . .” he used to say in his hoarse but simultaneously slightly shrill voice. “Envy is fatal. If you make too much of a show of success, people will want to take it from you!”

  Hamsa was content with what he had, the status quo suited him, with its calmness and balance. For that reason he was also a popular mediator, someone everyone trusted. He must be close to seventy now, yet there wasn’t a single gray hair on his head. He probably dyed both his hair and his little mustache. The rug on his head also looked suspiciously thick: Abu Hamsa had always been rather vain.

  “I’m truly sorry for your loss, my friend,” he hissed in Arabic. “Your brother was a fine young man. He deserved a far better fate than this.”

  “Thank you, Abu Hamsa,” Atif said as he blew on the scalding-hot coffee.

  “How long are you staying, my friend?”

  “I’m going back the day after tomorrow.”

  “Ah, so you’re not looking for work?” Abu Hamsa smiled.

  Atif shook his head, which seemed to make the little man’s smile even wider.

  “Wise decision. Things aren’t what they used to be. The consultants are taking over, even in our business. Everything is being opened up to competition, there’s no honor anymore, no loyalty. High time for people like me to get out. Let younger talents take over, inshallah.”

  Abu Hamsa made a small gesture toward the ceiling. Atif couldn’t help looking over at the young men who were still flocking around Cassandra. A couple of them were glaring in his direction. He drank some coffee without looking away.

  “You can hardly blame them.” Abu Hamsa seemed to have read his mind.

  “How so?”

  “You still have a certain . . . reputation, my friend. There was a lot of talk when you left. Some people really weren’t happy, and even suggested that you were letting everyone down.”

  “Like I said, I’m going back first thing next week,” Atif said, still without looking away from the young men. “And whatever a load of snotty kids think about that, well—” He broke off, realizing that his tone of voice was getting harder. “You must forgive me, I didn’t mean to sound unpleasant,” he said, and looked back at the little man.

  “No problem, my friend. I understand. Not an easy situation, this. Your brother, his little girl. What’s her name again? I’m starting to get old, I was at her naming ceremony and everything . . .”

  “Tindra,” Atif said, noting how his voice softened as he said it.

  “Little Tindra, yes, that was it. Losing your father so young, in that way . . .” Something in Abu Hamsa’s voice made Atif frown, and the little man noticed. “I . . . I assume you know what happened?”

  Atif nodded. “Cassandra told
me.”

  “And you know the details?”

  “The boys were unlucky,” Atif said. “An unmarked cop car saw them driving away from the security van. Evidently one of them hadn’t taken his balaclava off in time, so the cops followed them and called in backup. The rapid response unit went in just as they were changing cars, and shots were fired. Adnan and Juha were killed, and Tommy was left a vegetable.”

  “Sadly that’s all true.” Abu Hamsa nodded. “I just wanted to be sure that you knew all the details. Sometimes stories take on a life of their own, people talk so much. You know how it is.” The little man held out his hands. “By the way, you don’t have to worry about Adnan’s family.” Hamsa tilted his head toward Cassandra. “There are a lot of people supporting them, people who are angry with the police. Perhaps you heard that the rapid response unit was cleared of any suspicion of using excessive force, and that the whole thing was regarded as self-defense seeing as Adnan fired first? Things looked very unsettled for a while afterward. Cars set on fire, stone throwing, all the usual.”

  Atif nodded slowly and drank his cooling coffee.

  “And I myself will keep an eye on Tindra and her mother. For the sake of old friendship,” Abu Hamsa added. The little man glanced at Atif, evidently expecting some sort of reaction.

  “Thank you, Abu Hamsa. I know Adnan would have appreciated that,” Atif said.

  Abu Hamsa went on looking at him, then broke into a smile.

  “You seem different, my friend. Calmer, nowhere near as angry as you were before. You look much healthier, and your Arabic is much improved. You did the right thing in leaving. If your brother had done the same, or me too, for that matter, who knows how things might have turned out? But it takes great courage to do what you did, leaving everything behind. Starting again from scratch. Courage that most of us don’t have.” Abu Hamsa gestured toward the ceiling again.

  “Well, my friend, I shall let you finish your coffee,” he said. “It was lovely to see you again, even if the circumstances could obviously have been better. Please, convey my condolences to your mother. How is Dalia, by the way?”

  “Alzheimer’s,” Atif said quietly. “She’s living in a nursing home. But I promise I’ll tell her. She remembers things from the past fairly well. The present is more of a problem.”

  “I understand.” Abu Hamsa nodded. “I myself have come to the painful conclusion that I have forgotten considerably more things than I remember. My doctor says that it’s all there in my head, and that I’ve just forgotten how to find it. Like a path in the forest getting overgrown. Maybe she’s right, unless she’s just saying that to cheer me up.” The little man patted Atif on the shoulder. Tenderly, almost cautiously, in a way that made Atif smile slightly without knowing he was doing it.

  “Farewell, dear friend. Now I must convey my condolences to the beautiful young widow,” Abu Hamsa said. “But if there’s anything you need, I hope you’ll be in touch. Cassandra has my number, you only have to call. No matter what.” Abu Hamsa gave him an emphatic wink.

  “Really, I thought you were going to retire?” Atif said.

  “Inshallah!” the little man said, bursting into a hoarse laugh. “If it is God’s will. Have a safe journey home, my friend!”

  SEVEN

  He had to make sense of things. Get his weak, pathetic body out of this damn hospital bed and force his head to make the right connections. Try to work out what was going on. Why he had lied to his boss about the gaps in his memory, why he was scribbling cryptic warnings to himself, and why that name made his pulse race out of control.

  Janus. Clearly a code name for a CI, and a very important one, to judge by Bergh’s questions and paranoid behavior. The problem was that he couldn’t remember any code names, he couldn’t actually remember a bloody thing. Well, that wasn’t quite true, he wasn’t Jason Bourne. He could remember loads of things, just nothing that could help him make sense of what had happened. It was as if the stroke had sliced through his brain, cutting off all connections to the part where events of the past few years were kept. The only thing that seemed to bridge the gap was an indefinable, creeping sense of unease. Something was wrong, considerably more wrong than just a weak body trying to recover from an accident, or even a gash in his brain and migraines from hell. What was it Bergh had said about his crash? The words hadn’t wanted to fall into place properly.

  Sarac snorted and tried to hold his breath for a moment to stifle a sob. The mood swings were hard to get used to. He was being tossed between anger, grief, and fear, and occasionally a euphoric sensation that felt almost like happiness. The whole process made it much harder to make sense of everything.

  Damn it! He grabbed a couple of tissues from the bedside table and blew his nose. It would get better, it had to get better.

  One of the nurses put her head around the door.

  “Can you handle another visitor, David? It’s the man with the beard,” she whispered with a smile.

  “Hmm.” Sarac tried to sound as if he knew who she was talking about, but didn’t succeed.

  “About forty, six three, suntanned, very fit. He’s been to see you most days.”

  “Sure.” Sarac nodded, feeling relieved. He recognized the description and his mood improved at once.

  The nurse walked into his room, followed by the man with the neatly trimmed beard.

  “Hi, David!” The man smiled broadly as he pressed Sarac’s hand between both of his. He went on holding it in a way that made a lump start to grow in Sarac’s chest. “Good to see you looking brighter today.”

  Sarac nodded, then held his breath for a few seconds to get this new surge of emotion under control. Peter Molnar was one of his best friends, and also something of a mentor to him, but bursting into tears the moment he saw him was definitely not Sarac’s usual reaction. What the hell was happening to him? He swallowed a couple of times and managed to force a smile.

  “Fucking good to see you, Peter,” he muttered. Then suddenly wondered when he had started to swear so damn much.

  The nurse’s description of Molnar was pretty accurate. The only thing she had left out was his short, blond hair, with a slightly raised side part, and the chewing gum that was constantly on the go between his square, white teeth, spreading a smell of mint around the room.

  “I brought some roasted nuts from that place you like on Södermalm.” Molnar tossed a ziplock bag, filled to bursting, onto the bedside table.

  “I mean, he is allowed nuts, isn’t he, nurse? There aren’t any rules about that, are there?” He winked at the nurse, who was adjusting Sarac’s drip, and rounded it off with a dazzling smile.

  “You don’t seem the type to be too bothered about rules.” She smiled back. “Ten minutes, maximum, or you’ll have me to deal with.”

  The nurse left the room, slowly pulling the door shut behind her as she gave Molnar one last look. The man pulled up a chair, sat on it the wrong way around, and rested his arms on the back.

  “Nice!” He grinned, nodding toward the door. “I can see why you’d want to lie here and get looked after while the rest of us work our backsides off. We did a raid on that heroin case last night—more than two pounds. Your information was correct, as usual.” Molnar was still smiling, and Sarac realized that he was doing the same, almost without noticing.

  “Like I said, good to see you, Peter,” he said, trying to match his relaxed tone, but mainly just sounding a bit maudlin. The happiness he had felt just now was gone. He couldn’t remember the case Molnar was talking about, couldn’t actually remember a single case they had worked on. And this strong, suntanned man in front of him only emphasized his own wretched condition. His collarbone and the bandages around his head and stomach. The mood swings, not to mention the lack of energy. He must have lost at least fifteen pounds of muscle while he’d been lying there, if not more. Molnar seemed to notice the change in his mood, because he hurried to break the silence.

  “The boys say hello. They wanted to come as well,
but I told them to wait a bit. Thought you probably needed a chance to recover first. After everything you’ve been through.” He pulled a face.

  Sarac nodded and unconsciously put a hand to his head.

  “I bumped into Bergh. He said you had a few gaps in your memory,” Molnar said.

  Sarac took a deep breath, trying to muster his thoughts, but the headache kept getting in the way.

  “Well . . .” he said. He cleared his throat to make his voice sound more steady. “It’s not like it is in films. I know who I am, where I live, what my parents’ names were, where I went to school, how to tie my shoelaces, all that sort of thing.” He waved one hand, trying to find the right words. “But everything feels so distant, it’s like I’m not really . . . present. Like I’m looking on from the sidelines, if you see what I mean?”

  Molnar nodded slowly. His clear blue eyes were looking straight at Sarac, as if he were saying something incredibly interesting. Peter was good at making people feel that they were being noticed, appreciated.

  “What about the crash, do you remember anything about that?” Molnar said in a low voice.

  Sarac shook his head and decided to tell the truth. “To be honest, I can hardly remember anything about the past couple of years. After 2011, all I’ve got are random fragments floating about in my head.

  “But that’ll pass,” he added quickly. “The doctor’s sure that things will become clearer as soon as the swelling has gone down. It’s just a matter of time.”

  This last bit wasn’t entirely true. Dr. Vestman was far too cautious to promise anything like that. But no matter. Sarac had made up his mind. He was going to get better, completely better, in both mind and body, and in record time.

  His headache was on the move, gradually unfurling its spidery legs.

  “So when precisely do your memories stop? You started in the Intelligence Unit early in 2011. I was the one who recruited you,” Molnar said.

  Sarac nodded. “Yes, I remember that, no problem.”