“I saw you here a couple of weeks ago,” Hunter said. “We kept an eye on you for a while. One of my business partners tried to persuade us that you could be reasoned with. That you could be controlled.” Hunter shook his head. “I always thought that was nonsense. A man like you. If it had been my brother . . .” He shrugged.
“Well, as you’ve doubtless already been told, not everyone is happy with you stirring up trouble. Bakshi is making a hell of a fuss. He’s demanding that you be disposed of. Apparently that little shit is a decent source of income for people.”
“Is that why you’re here, Hunter?” Atif nodded toward the car behind them. “Because you listened to Bakshi?”
Hunter said nothing and seemed to be thinking of how to express himself.
“I think you misunderstand me, Atif. I really only wanted an opportunity to have a quiet chat with you. But I realize now that I might not have chosen the right way to go about it.”
He took a radio transmitter out of his jacket pocket and held it to his mouth. “You can go, it’s okay,” he said. The speaker buzzed twice, then the Range Rover behind them slowly drove off.
“There,” Hunter said. “Perhaps now we can continue our conversation on slightly more relaxed terms.”
Atif didn’t respond. The situation surprised him more than he was prepared to admit. But it never did any harm to listen. Hunter. A striking name, probably an alias. The man neither looked nor sounded like he was American, nor British, come to that. But on the other hand, he didn’t look much like the security experts Atif had encountered in Iraq either. More like an ordinary businessman.
“The men you saw coming out of the gym—Abu Hamsa, the bikers, and the others—are all regarded as fairly heavy players. But in relative terms they’re pretty small. They’ve all got bosses, who in turn have bosses. The organizations have different names, but the money, the really serious money, always flows upward, toward the top.”
He gestured toward the roof of the car.
“But Hamsa and the other little potentates also have something else in common. They have a problem. A big problem,” he went on.
“You mean the infiltrator, Janus?”
“Precisely.” Hunter nodded. “Janus is ruining their business. Making them all suspect one another. And if business isn’t working, then—”
“The money stops flowing,” Atif said.
“Exactly!”
“So where do you come into the picture, Hunter?” Atif tried to sound less curious than he really was.
“I’m a sort of problem solver,” he replied. “Someone who gets called in when an impartial outsider is required. My job is to see that the problem disappears in a way that creates as little anxiety as possible. You see . . .”
He twisted slightly in his seat.
“If any of the other involved parties finds Janus first, one of two things would happen.” He held up a finger. “If it’s his own organization that finds him, Janus would vanish without a trace. No one would breathe a word to the others because of the risk of being linked to Janus’s treachery. So the whole thing would drag out, with the various groups always looking over their shoulders, and business would go on suffering. Or—”
“Another organization finds Janus,” Atif said before Hunter had time to hold up a second finger. “And they’d use him as a weapon and disrupt the balance of power.”
“I see that you understand the problem,” Hunter said. “My task is to find Janus first. Find out exactly what damage he has done, and if anyone else is involved. Once Janus has been debriefed, I am to deliver a report to my employers.”
“The bosses’ bosses,” Atif said. “Who are . . . ?”
Hunter smiled and shrugged his shoulders gently. “You’re probably aware of some of them, but you’d never have heard of most of them,” he said.
“And you’re sure you’re going to find him first? Hamsa sounded convinced that his people were close,” Atif said.
Hunter shook his head slowly. “Are you aware of the Wallenda Effect, Atif? No? It’s about focusing entirely on succeeding instead of worrying about what might happen if you fail. My team and I have nothing to lose, so we don’t have to waste time and effort contemplating the consequences of failure.”
He reached out his right hand and wound the window down slightly, to let out some of the moisture in the car that was starting to mist the windows.
“Anyway,” Hunter said. “Once everything is over my employers will ask me to make sure that Janus disappears, for good, and without the slightest trace.” He paused.
“And that’s actually why I wanted to talk to you, Atif. You see, my men and I all have police or military backgrounds. Obviously, we do whatever is required in the heat of battle. But neither they nor I are particularly comfortable with more cold-blooded . . . solutions of this sort.”
“You’re not the type to execute a defenseless man, chop his body up, and burn the remains beyond all recognition?”
“Well, no.” For the first time Hunter looked slightly less self-confident. But he quickly recovered. “You see, Atif, my mother’s family is from Bosnia. A number of my relatives died in the war. Murdered by people who used to be their neighbors, their friends, even. Because I speak the language, I spent several years working in the region for the war crimes tribunal in the Hague. We tracked down people who had participated in atrocities, made sure they were brought to justice. Monsters, you might think. Sick bastards . . .” He shrugged again.
“But in actual fact almost all of them were perfectly ordinary people. Full of excuses but without any real explanations for why they did what they did. It became obvious to me that everything is about morals. Establishing clear boundaries for yourself, and never, ever crossing them.”
He wound the window down a bit more and breathed out a plume of steam.
“And as you doubtless know, once you cross that line, there’s—”
“No way back,” Atif muttered.
Hunter closed the window.
“And that’s where I come into the picture,” Atif said. “You need to outsource the disappearance, make sure that Janus vanishes without a trace. And you think I’m the right person for that sort of job?”
“I’m glad we understand each other, Atif.” The man’s mood seemed to have improved again. “I thought that a man in your situation might appreciate a chance to take revenge on his brother’s murderer. To restore the honor of his family. And, as I understand it, you’ve carried out similar tasks before.”
Hunter paused, waiting for Atif to say something. Atif wondered who the man had been talking to. He guessed it was probably Abu Hamsa, or possibly even his old comrade Sasha. No matter who it was, he seemed very well informed.
“Besides,” Hunter said when Atif didn’t say anything, “as part of my team no one would dare to touch you. Neither old enemies nor new, but you would also have to follow my instructions to the letter.”
Atif slowly shook his head. Then he took a deep breath.
“I’ve already got a job,” he said.
“Of course, yes, your job. I almost forgot that.” Hunter smiled again. “I spoke to your boss the other day. Major Faisal of the military police battalion of the Sixth Army Division. He had a lot of good things to say about you. Said you were one of his best men. Wondered when you were going to be back. I told him it would probably be a while.” Hunter winked at Atif. “Contacts, Atif, that’s alpha and omega in my branch. It’s hard to imagine that a man like you could change sides. I guess there aren’t many people here who know about that?”
Atif looked at Hunter, meeting his amused gaze. The man had an irritating smirk on his lips, as if this were all just a game. Who had said anything about Atif’s job? Cassandra had spoken to Faisal over the phone, so she could have leaked his name and number. It had to be her. Shit!
“Well, perhaps you could think about it?” Hunter said. “Like I said, we could certainly use a man with your . . . talents on our team. Here’s my number.”
He put a business card in the compartment just above the gearshift, before pulling the radio transmitter from his pocket.
“In the meantime, Atif, I’d advise you to be careful.”
The Range Rover appeared in Atif’s rearview mirror again. The passenger door was opened from the inside, revealing an empty seat.
“Look after yourself, and get in touch if you change your mind.”
The car door closed behind Frank Hunter. Moments later both he and the black vehicle were gone.
TWENTY-EIGHT
“And just as the guy landed on the grass, David tackled him. Hit him so fucking hard he shat himself. Seriously, he actually shat himself. We had to wrap him up in a plastic sheet when we drove him back to the station!”
The laughter that followed was so loud that Sarac almost covered his ears. But he stopped himself in time and laughed along with the others instead, until he was literally crying with laughter.
They were all sitting in the living room. The excursion to the edge of the forest, his contradictory feelings, and, not least, the loud voices around him had left Sarac feeling completely exhausted. But he still didn’t want it to end.
Molnar was telling stories, talking about various cases they’d worked on together. Crooks they’d caught, sources they’d recruited. Sarac could actually remember most of it, at least when he was reminded of their work. Or else he was so keen to remember these events that he was turning them into real memories. It was impossible to say where the boundary was.
“Do you remember that gypsy, David? What was his name? Tallrot, something like that. We stopped him on Sveavägen and checked his car, and he said that all seven of his brothers were crooks. All of them but him, obviously. Do you know what David called him?” Molnar turned to the others in the room. There was total silence. “The white sheep of the family!”
The salvo of laughter was even louder than before, overwhelming Sarac’s ears, and this time he couldn’t stop his hands. He pressed his thumbs into his ears and covered his face with his hands. All sounds blurred together, then stopped abruptly.
“Are you okay, David?”
He tried to nod. He could feel the fingers covering his eyes getting wet.
“We should probably . . .” Someone pulled out a chair and the scraping sound hid the rest of the sentence. Sarac rubbed his eyes, then wiped his hands on his jeans.
“I-it’s okay,” he said. His voice sounded shaky again. “I’m just . . . just a bit tired. You don’t have to . . .”
But they were already all on their feet.
Sarac caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the glass door to the terrace. His fragile body, bald head, the plaster on his scalp. Then he noticed the way they were looking at him, with the same pity as the men in the corridor up in Police Headquarters.
For a short while he had almost managed to convince himself that everything was back to normal. That he was still one of them. But the man they were talking about no longer existed. All that was left was a stumbling, mumbling wreck who couldn’t even manage to go for a walk in his garden.
Tears were still seeping out and he covered his face with his hands again. A sudden pressure in his chest was making his breathing uneven, almost gasping. He heard them leave the room and could hear them talking in low voices as they pulled on their coats and slipped out the front door. Then the muffled sound of car doors closing and a large diesel motor slowly driving away.
“Here you go, David.” Molnar put a glass of water on the table in front of Sarac and sat down on the sofa.
“Look, I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s my fault. The guys were so keen to see you, now that it’s Christmas and everything. I thought it might cheer you up. But we should have waited.” He ran his tongue over his teeth.
“N-no, it’s fine, Peter.” Sarac drank a few sips of water. Got his voice back under control. “It was good to see everyone. Really. I’m just frustrated that . . .”
He gestured toward his head. And took a couple of jerky breaths.
“That my head’s still so fucking sluggish.”
“You have to give yourself a bit of time, David. The doctor said—”
“I don’t give a shit about any fucking doctors!” His anger took him by surprise, giving him fresh energy. “I don’t want your fucking pity. I’m sick of it. Anyway, it’s really only relief that it’s me rather than any of you guys who’s been turned into a fucking gurgling wreck.”
He gulped down the rest of the water, knocking the glass against his teeth so hard that it hurt.
“Look, David.” Molnar cleared his throat a couple of times. He didn’t seem to know what to say.
“You don’t have to stay, Peter. I’ll be fine.” Sarac leaned his head in his hands.
“Okay.” Molnar stood up but didn’t move. “There was something else. But maybe this isn’t the right time.”
“What?” Sarac took a deep breath. Tried to pull himself together.
“We managed to get something from the car. Something that belongs to you.”
Sarac straightened up. “What?!”
Molnar put a ziplock bag, the size of a sheet of A4 paper, on the table in front of Sarac. Inside it was a flat object that was clearly visible through the plastic. A battered black notebook.
For a couple of seconds Sarac got the impression that the notebook had landed on the table with a loud slap. Then he realized that the sound had come from inside his own head.
TWENTY-NINE
The notebook smelled of burned plastic. The bottom right corner was scorched and curled, and the paper had turned yellow in places. But the book seemed largely intact. Sarac kept turning it over and looking at it, the sound of his heartbeat almost drowning out Molnar’s voice.
“I found it in the wreckage. I’ve been sitting on it for a while. Thought that was the best thing to do.”
Sarac nodded distractedly. This was his book, with his notes, his reminders. The thing he dreamed he had seen in that strange room on the way to the island. Now that he was holding the book in his hand, he couldn’t believe it had ever slipped his mind. This book was his whole life, his anchor in the world.
He leafed through it, delirious with joy. Almost every page was covered with writing, a mixture of words and numbers. Clues that could help him make sense of things. And find his way back to himself.
It took a fair time before he realized that he couldn’t actually understand all the notes.
Meeting with Jupiter 14.00 at 781216.
“Do you remember the code?” Molnar asked eagerly. “Jupiter’s a CI, and the number beginning with seventy-eight is probably a place.”
Sarac opened his mouth and swallowed a couple of times. Then slowly shook his head.
“Try the first page, then,” Molnar said. “Look at that symbol, those Js must mean Janus, surely?”
Sarac leafed back to the first page. The same symbol he had seen on the wall of his apartment, then on the whiteboard in his dream. Two Js, the first one reversed so that the tails were facing each other. This version was even more ornate than the one on the wall. And at last he realized what it meant. The letters formed a two-headed symbol—two faces looking in opposite directions. A Janus face. The god who could see both the past and the future. The realization almost made him cry out in delight.
Instead he just nodded eagerly at Molnar as he ran his index finger down the page. Beneath the symbol there were five ten-digit numbers spread out across the lined paper.
The first one was 9728444477.
Sarac stared at the number and realized that he and Molnar were both holding their breath. The numbers and letters drifted together, briefly forming a pattern. Then they broke apart again.
“I . . . ID numbers,” he said.
“Are you sure?” Molnar sounded disappointed.
Sarac nodded. “Fairly sure.”
“We’ve already checked that, of course,” Molnar said. “Only one of the numbers works. It belongs to a woman in Umeå, a librarian. She’s not
in any of our databases, and she hasn’t got any relatives or anything else linking her to either you or Stockholm. Kristina Svensson, does that name mean anything to you?” Molnar was pointing at the number at the bottom of the page. Sarac shook his head. It wasn’t ringing any bells at all.
“What about the other four?” he said.
“They don’t work,” Molnar said. “Just look at the first one, 9728444477. Ninety-seven is okay as a year of birth, but the forty-fourth day of the twenty-eighth month?”
Sarac saw the problem and couldn’t understand how something so basic had escaped him.
“I think they’re bank accounts,” Molnar said. “And that they tie in with how you paid Janus. If you could just remember which bank it is, maybe we could get hold of a bit more information. A bank card that he’s using, maybe even security camera footage that could give us a face. Can you remember anything to do with banks or account numbers?”
Sarac was still shaking his head. For a few seconds it had felt as if things were shifting, that everything was about to become clear. But instead he was just feeling even more confused. The disappointment was on the point of sinking him altogether. Molnar seemed to notice.
“Don’t worry, David. It’ll turn out all right. We’re going to find him, I promise.” He put his hand on Sarac’s shoulder. “Sleep on it, then have a proper look at the notebook tomorrow. The pieces are bound to fall into place sooner or later.”
“Okay,” Sarac mumbled. “T-thanks, Peter. Thanks for all you’re doing for me. For being so patient,” he added.
“Don’t mention it. We’re friends, you’d have done the same for me, wouldn’t you?”
Sarac nodded. “H-how are things at work? With Wallin and the Internal Investigation team?”
Molnar gave a crooked smile. “Well, they all want to get hold of you. They keep turning up at your apartment at regular intervals. They don’t seem too happy about the fact that you’re not home. But so far they’ve got their hands full with other stuff. The internal investigators need to question loads of people before they can work out what’s been going on and can formulate any sort of formal suspicions. And that’s proving to be rather difficult, because half of Bergh’s department are away on an equality course. Wallin’s boys have also been afflicted by unexpected absences, so I imagine we’ve got a couple of weeks before everyone figures out exactly what they think they’re going to get you on.”
MemoRandom: A Thriller Page 19
