MemoRandom: A Thriller

by Anders de la Motte

  “Natalie, wait a minute!”

  Sarac took a few steps toward the car but stopped when he heard an engine approaching. A white van with peeling blue lettering on the front was slowly coming around the corner. It stopped for a moment, as if the driver were waiting for something. He took a couple of quick steps toward the Golf. The door was locked. He tugged at the handle, then leaned over and banged on the windshield.

  The van was getting closer. Sarac stared at the driver’s seat and thought he could make out a bulky, dark figure. His heart was pounding. He should have followed his gut instinct and put the revolver Bergh had given him in his pocket instead of leaving it in the trunk of the car.

  The Golf’s engine started with a roar. Sarac banged on the windshield again, harder this time, but Natalie looked away.

  “Natalie, open the door, for fuck’s sake!”

  The van put its headlights on full beam, dazzling him. He heard the Golf’s transmission crunch. She was going to drive off and leave him there.

  “Natalie!” he yelled, tugging one last time at the handle. This time the door flew open so abruptly that he almost lost his balance.

  “Get in!” Natalie shouted. He obeyed instantly.

  The Golf shot off with its wheels spinning, bouncing and sliding over the cobbles. It missed a protruding doorstep by a matter of an inch before Natalie managed to get control of the steering and aim the car straight down the narrow street.

  The van was right behind them, its headlights lit up the whole of the inside of the car and Natalie had to knock the rearview mirror aside to avoid being blinded. The two vehicles raced through the narrow street, the noise of their engines echoing between the old buildings. Sarac looked over his shoulder, then at Natalie. She opened her mouth to say something but changed her mind. She decided to focus on the driving. Everything else could wait.

  A junction was approaching, and Natalie slammed on the brakes and wrenched the wheel to the left. But the car didn’t turn fast enough. The wall of the building was coming up fast. They were going to crash straight into it.

  Natalie grabbed the hand brake and pulled it as hard as she could. The back wheels locked, making the car slide to the left.

  The right side of the Golf slammed into the wall, then the car rebounded into the street. The next junction was only ten feet away.

  “The car isn’t responding like it should,” Natalie yelled. “I think we’ve got a puncture.”

  She turned right, tugging the wheel as far as she could and repeating the trick with the hand brake. By the smallest possible margin she managed to squeeze the Golf into an even narrower street. The wheel was vibrating wildly in her hands, making it almost impossible to keep the car straight.

  A heavy jolt made the Golf lurch. It hit the wall on the right, then the left. The van had rammed them and was about to do it again. A second jolt made the Golf leap forward out of control.

  The buzzing was back in Sarac’s head. Engine noise, headlights, lurching movement. This was all very familiar.

  Suddenly Natalie slammed on the brakes, twisted the steering wheel to the left, and yanked the hand brake for a third time so that the Golf ended up sideways across the narrow street. The air inside the car filled with the sound of crumpling metal, then the bang of the air bag inflating.

  The van was too close to have time to brake. The collision shook the Golf, shoving it forward another yard or so and wedging it between the buildings. For a brief moment everything was quiet.

  Sarac was gasping for air. His seat belt was pulled tight across his chest and a thin, white powder was swirling in the air, stinging his throat. A loud, shrieking sound in his head was blocking out all the noise, making the world move in slow motion. He could see Natalie fighting with the fabric of the air bag. Her lips were moving slowly. Then faster. Things suddenly sped up again, throwing him back into real time.

  “Run!” Natalie was shouting.

  She pointed through the passenger window, toward the end of the street.

  “Get moving, he can’t get past! Run, for God’s sake!”

  Sarac got his seat belt undone and pulled at the door handle. The door was jammed. He spun around in his seat, raised both feet, and kicked. He heard the sound of metal protesting.

  “Hurry, he’s getting out!” Natalie was still fighting with the air bag and her own seat belt. Sarac pushed as hard as he could, pressing down with his heels. The door flew open.

  He tumbled out onto the street, then took a few staggering steps before looking back. He saw that the man was out of the van now. Thickset, with a hood over his head. Janus!

  Janus had been watching his apartment and had seen him shake off the police officers who were supposed to be protecting him. And now he was here, to cut the last tie. Sarac was almost paralyzed with terror, but somehow he managed to get his legs to move. He already had a thirty-foot advantage. By the time his pursuer had clambered over the Golf, it would be at least double that.

  He sped up and aimed for the street corner. One of his feet slid on the icy road and he almost fell. But at the last moment he managed to regain his balance.

  Behind him he heard a car door slam shut, then the warning alarm of a reversing vehicle.

  Thirty feet to the junction, fifteen . . .

  His feet slipped again; the cobbles were like glass. His right leg almost gave way. He found himself on a steep slope and turned left, heading downhill. Thirty feet ahead of him the road turned sharply right and carried on toward Järntorget. In front of him was a metal railing, and beyond that a sheer drop down to the street below, Österlånggatan.

  Sarac slipped again and very nearly fell this time. Behind him he could hear the sound of an engine revving hard as it got closer.

  His legs were moving automatically; the slope and the icy road surface made it impossible to stop. The van emerged at the top of the slope behind him. The beam of the headlights reflected off the windows on the other side of Österlånggatan. Sarac leaned right, trying to take the corner as sharply as possible. His right leg gave way and he slipped and fell to the ground.

  He landed on his back, just a few yards from the metal railing. The fall knocked the air out of him. The back of his head hit the cobbles, and the night sky high above began to spin slowly.

  He heard the shriek of brakes, tires crunching on the frozen cobbles, and tried desperately to get to his feet. But he was still groggy and couldn’t get any grip on the slippery road surface; he merely managed to push himself backward, up against the railings.

  The van was lurching toward him, its rear end sliding out until the vehicle was almost moving sideways. Sarac tried to get out of the way but realized he wasn’t going to make it in time. He pushed back against the metal railings and closed his eyes.

  The front and rear wheels on the left side of the van hit the edge of the sidewalk at almost the same time. The right wheels lifted slightly from the ground, and for a moment it looked as though the vehicle was about to roll on top of Sarac.

  But the swaying van fell back onto all four wheels and came to a complete standstill. The driver’s door opened and the man in the hood got out.

  Sarac’s heartbeat was racing in panic. He made a fresh attempt to stand up. This time he succeeded rather better. He cast a quick glance over the railing. About twenty feet down to Österlånggatan.

  “Don’t even think about it!”

  Sarac spun around and found himself staring straight into the barrel of a pistol. The driver of the van raised his hand and pulled back the hood that was obscuring his face. In spite of the gun, Sarac almost felt relieved for a moment. It wasn’t Janus but the man from Högbergsgatan. The one Natalie had photographed. The man who had helped him try to save Sabatini. What the hell was he doing here?

  “Jump in!” The man slid open the side door of the van with his free hand.

  Sarac didn’t move. He turned his head, looking for options. In the distance there was the sound of sirens. Slightly closer he could hear a rattling car
engine. The man lowered the gun a fraction.

  “The alternative is that I shoot you in the knee and put you in the van myself. Your choice!”

  Reluctantly Sarac took a couple of steps forward and put his hand up onto the roof of the van, but stopped in the doorway. He caught sight of the filthy mattress and cable ties that were already in there. He realized what was going on. He turned to face the man.

  “Look,” he began.

  At that moment a hoarse-sounding car engine roared above them at the top of the slope.

  • • •

  Natalie swore through her teeth. Poor bloody Golf. The warning lights on the dashboard were lit up like a Christmas tree and the air stank of chemicals from the air bag. But at least the plucky little car was still moving.

  There were lights on in half the windows lining the street, and she could see the silhouettes of people peering out. She didn’t care. For a few brief seconds she had considered abandoning Sarac in the street. But she couldn’t do it. She had lost face and been uncovered as a liar. But not just that. Rickard had lied to her, making her feel like an idiot twice over. She was angry with herself, not Sarac. Besides, no matter how you looked at it, she had an agreement with Adelfi. Sarac was still her patient, her responsibility.

  The steering wheel was pulling badly, and there was a scraping noise from one of the wings, but that stopped when something fell off and ended up under the tires. The van had quickly reversed and gone back the same way it had come, to take the parallel street after Sarac. She should really have walked away from the whole thing. She should have abandoned the car, called Rickard, and explained that her cover was blown. But Sarac was still out there. Alone, and without much chance of defending himself.

  She reached the junction and pulled out at the top of the slope. She could see the white van parked below, right next to the railings. She changed down to a lower gear and revved the engine. She grinned.

  Payback time!

  • • •

  Sarac glanced quickly across the roof of the van. He saw the Golf careering down the slope. Natalie’s hands were clutching the wheel, and her eyes were fixed on the van. He looked at the man with the pistol and saw his eyes open wide. Then he leaped through the open door.

  • • •

  Natalie rammed the van squarely in the middle of its side. The collision made its right wheels lift from the ground and it toppled slowly onto the other side. But Natalie didn’t have a chance to see what happened. For the second time in the space of just five minutes she hit her head on the steering wheel, and this time there was no air bag to cushion the blow.

  • • •

  Atif saw the car coming but only managed to take one step toward the railings before the collision. The van tipped up and then began to fall toward him. The roof was only less than an inch from his head when he leaped over the railing and fell headlong toward the pavement far below.

  • • •

  Sarac crawled slowly out of the overturned van. The base of his spine and the back of his head were still aching after his earlier tumble, but he was pretty much okay. The Golf was standing just a yard or so away. Its engine was clicking and hissing, and a plume of steam from its radiator was rising from the hood. He went around it as fast as he could and managed to yank the driver’s door open.

  Natalie was leaning forward with her head resting on the steering wheel. When he gently pushed her back he saw blood on her face. Damn!

  “Natalie?” He moved her shoulder.

  “Natalie, can you hear me?” He looked down, checking for other injuries. The steering column was pressed against one of her legs, making it impossible to pull her out. He could hear sirens in the distance.

  “Did I get him?” she said.

  Her eyes were still closed, but he saw the corners of her mouth twitch.

  “That bastard wrecked my car. Just tell me I got him, and I can die in peace.”

  “Natalie, I think you’re probably going to be okay,” Sarac mumbled.

  “Of course I am, you idiot.” She opened her eyes, wiped the blood from her forehead, and grimaced with pain. “I’ve cracked my forehead, probably got a concussion. Throw in a few mangled ribs.” Natalie coughed. “Did he get squashed?”

  Sarac shook his head. “I think he jumped over the railings,” he said.

  “Shame.” She cleared her throat. “I got a quick look at him just before I hit. It was the guy in the picture, wasn’t it, the one from Högbergsgatan?”

  Sarac nodded. The sirens were getting closer, echoing between the buildings.

  “Get out of here,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

  Sarac looked around.

  “Are you sure?” he said.

  “Get the fuck out of here, David.” Natalie coughed again and spat at his feet.

  Sarac nodded but didn’t move for a few seconds.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Thanks for helping me, Natalie.”

  The impact had thrown the trunk open. Sarac grabbed his bag and began to walk up the slope. He stopped after a few steps when he heard Natalie call after him.

  “Oscar!” she shouted. “Oscar Wallin, that’s his real name. Rickard’s, I mean.”

  FIFTY-TWO

  Sarac was walking up and down in front of the whiteboard. He was wound up, the adrenaline kick still hadn’t subsided. The van driver wasn’t Janus but the man who had helped him try to save Sabatini up in Högbergsgatan. The man must have heard him ask about Janus. And a couple of days later he shows up with a van and tries to kidnap him. Conclusion? The man in the van was looking for Janus as well.

  What puzzled him was how van-man had managed to find him? His address was protected, his phone number was unlisted. But there were probably police officers who were prepared to sell all manner of information, if the price was right. Officers like him. No matter how the man had found him, he was someone else to add to the growing list of people who were searching for Janus.

  The lawyer, Crispin, was trying to buy Janus for his clients. Molnar wanted to cover his tracks. And then there was Oscar Wallin, another of von Katzow’s adepts, who wanted to take over control of Janus and pressure him into carrying on his work. Wallin had been one step ahead and had actually managed to infiltrate his own immediate network. Natalie must have reported everything that had happened to Wallin. The notebook, the breakthrough with the codes, the names. He was probably the one she had called from the ferry when they were on their way to see Sabatini in Högbergsgatan. Natalie was tough, she wasn’t easily persuaded about anything, suggesting that Wallin was a considerably more skillful player than Molnar had believed.

  He thought about Natalie and wondered how she was. He suppressed an impulse to call Södermalm Hospital to check. Natalie was a closed chapter. He had trusted her, she had betrayed him. But she had also saved his life, which made it much harder to be angry with her. Fucking hell!

  Then there was Dreyer and his internal investigators lurking in the background. Dreyer may have said he wasn’t interested in Janus, but an infiltrator who murdered a police officer was exactly the sort of weapon he needed to sink the whole Intelligence Unit once and for all. Possibly even the whole of Regional Crime.

  The last name on the list of people chasing Janus was his own. Why was he so keen? It had long since stopped being about any desire for revenge, or regaining his position on the team. He had let them all down; he’d never be able to look them in the eye again after he had sold himself out to Crispin. No, there was something else.

  Did he want Janus to answer for what he had done? Probably not, he was pretty much caught up in it all just as badly himself. Was it about getting hold of the final pieces of the puzzle of who he had once been? That was certainly part of the motivation, but far from all of it. So what was it, then, what was left? Why was he still chasing a truth that kept getting more and more unpalatable? He still didn’t really know.

  Janus had been his infiltrator, his responsibility. Maybe, on some unconscious level, he still wanted
to try to save him? Compensate for his betrayal, the money he had taken from Crispin to hand him over?

  Sometimes handlers and sources get too close to each other, far too close.

  It was all fairly clear to him now. Things had unfolded more or less as Molnar had said. Janus had killed Brian Hansen in the car. He could practically describe how it had happened. How their eyes had met in the rearview mirror, a tacit understanding of what had to happen. It wasn’t a surprise, as Molnar had believed, but premeditated murder. Janus had killed Hansen, had done it for his sake, to save Sarac from ruin, but just as much to save himself.

  The murder became their shared secret, tying them together forever. The gun to the head that made it impossible for either of them to betray the other. Was that why he had had a breakdown? Had he realized he had got himself into a situation it was impossible to get out of?

  He had promised Dreyer the name of a mole that was actually himself, and in his role as Erik I. Johansson he had already taken Crispin’s money to reveal Janus’s identity. And Bergh and his bosses were demanding more results, the sort of thing that would allow them to go on looking the other way from his rule-shredding operation. And on the sidelines lurked Wallin, eager to get hold of Janus’s secrets.

  But after Janus killed Hansen for him, he was trapped. He had got himself caught in a mantrap that was impossible to escape. Was that why he had driven into the tunnel, pumped full of drugs, driving as if the devil himself were after him? Because he couldn’t see any other way out?

  Even if he tried to keep that thought at bay, the logic of it was undeniable. The stroke that almost killed him actually may have saved his life. Saved him from himself. Although in fact it had only given him a temporary reprieve. He was back in the mantrap without any possibility of escape.

  Sarac put his head in his hands. He had allowed himself to be blinded by the excitement, crawling so far inside Erik I. Johansson’s skin that eventually he had lost sight of himself. And had committed the ultimate betrayal of a source. Selling him out for money.