MemoRandom: A Thriller

by Anders de la Motte

“You saw the list of calls from my phone, Peter. Maybe you even recognized the numbers. Either way, you immediately worked out who I’d called, and that I’d warned them all,” Sarac said.

  “But you couldn’t know what I’d said about you, or Janus. You couldn’t feel safe.”

  Molnar still didn’t say anything.

  “Lehtonen and Sabatini managed to get out of the country. They’d probably have stayed away longer if someone hadn’t called them and said it was all a false alarm. Someone they knew and trusted. Someone they’d worked with before. The very person who actually wanted to see them dead.”

  Molnar was slowly moving toward Sarac.

  “I only did what I had to to protect the secret, David. Our secret, yours and mine, just like you said. Even Bergh had no idea how it all worked, he thought it was just a matter of digging out your backup list and carrying on. When it went missing he panicked, thought someone had stolen it. Whereas in actual fact . . .”

  “There was no list,” Sarac muttered. “I’d replaced it with an empty envelope to protect our secret. To conceal the name that was missing, that couldn’t be there.”

  He moved his thumb over his phone and closed his eyes. He thought about Janus’s face in the rearview mirror. His own smile, the smell of Hansen’s fear.

  Debts I can’t escape till the day I die, a familiar voice whispered in his head.

  Janus—the Roman god with two faces. Just like him.

  He pressed the Send button. Twice, just to make sure. He saw the message leave the outbox. Now there was no way back.

  “So what happens next, David?” Molnar said. “Now that you know everything, now that I know that you know?” He lowered his hand and placed it on his holster.

  Sarac looked at his watch. The luminous hands said it was two minutes to eight.

  “We wait,” he said.

  • • •

  As soon as Atif had gone, Natalie tried to sit up. She felt her pockets, looking for her cell phone, but quickly realized it wasn’t there. Either she’d lost it when she fell or Atif had taken it without her noticing. She crawled over to the side door and started to pick at the lock. Just as she’d thought, her fingers wouldn’t do as she wanted. Suddenly the inside of the van was lit up by headlights. A large vehicle was approaching at top speed. Natalie crawled over to the little rear window and reached her hand up in an attempt to wave at the driver. But the vehicle sped past, large and black, so close that it made the van sway. Its taillights headed off down the road, getting dimmer and dimmer. Then they suddenly got brighter again as the brake lights lit up a thousand feet farther on.

  The driver’s door of the van opened and Atif jumped back in. He had his cell phone in his hand.

  “No one home, but it’s all sorted anyway. Looks like we’re almost there.” He waved his phone.

  More headlights approached and another vehicle drove past, a van this time. Atif sat and watched it. His eyes followed the lights until they turned off the road at the same place as the previous vehicle.

  Atif started the van and pulled out gently into the road, following the thick tire tracks through the snow.

  “Can you explain something to me?” he said. “Why did you do it? Risk your life for him? Are you together?”

  Natalie shook her head.

  “So why?” He sounded genuinely interested.

  “You wouldn’t understand if I told you.” I’m not sure I do myself, she thought.

  • • •

  The radio crackled again, but this time there was an agitated voice at the other end.

  “Peter, it’s Josef. A car just stopped down on the main road. Now it’s heading this way at full speed, and it sounds as if someone’s approaching on foot from the other direction, through the forest!”

  “What’s going on, David?” Molnar was fighting to keep his voice calm.

  “We got it wrong, Peter,” Sarac said sadly. “We broke our own code of honor, we revealed secrets we’d promised to protect. I tried to fix it, but some things are just too broken to mend.”

  He held his cell phone up to Molnar.

  “I did what they’ve been paying me for,” he said. “I told them Janus is here on the island tonight. I didn’t want to give them the address until we’d had a chance to talk. I wanted to be completely certain that we’re both equally guilty. And now they know where Janus is.”

  Molnar spun around and walked quickly into the hall and over to the front door. An engine was roaring, and the drive was lit up by headlights.

  “Who are they?” he yelled over his shoulder as he drew his pistol. “Who did you tell, David? The Yugos? The Russians? The bikers?”

  “All of them,” Sarac replied. “I contacted all of them.”

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  Security consultant Frank Hunter had planned the operation down to the smallest detail. Four men in total, plus him. Two for Sarac, two for Janus. Bulletproof vests, military harnesses, stun grenades, and light weapons.

  In just a couple of minutes Janus would be lying tied up in the car. The trunk contained all the equipment that was needed to make him talk, mostly drugs. Violence only paid off when you wanted simple answers like yes or no. His employers wanted more than that, much more. They wanted to know absolutely everything. Who Janus was working with, for how long, what information he had handed over, and so on. And once they’d got that, and Janus’s entire story was recorded, his new “friend” Atif Kassab would take care of the rest. An unpleasant sort, that Kassab. A man who had long since crossed all imaginable boundaries. Predictable in his desire for revenge, but also exploitable.

  The engine of the 4x4 was roaring, and adrenaline was pumping through his body. Even though Hunter had done this plenty of times before, he still enjoyed the rush. This was what it was all about, the result of his sacrifices. The Sophie Thorning job had demanded a degree of improvisation, but it had still been one of his best. As close to perfection as you could get at such short notice. The body, the apartment, the car—everything had been taken care of. He had done what was required.

  And now that improvised operation was paying off at last. Favors offered, favors repaid. His employers would be pleased, the way they usually were. Frank Hunter always delivered.

  “Alpha team, go!” he said into his radio, and two of the men clinging to the outside of the jeep leaped off while it was still moving and started running toward the back of the house. The car was rushing forward, powerful lights blazing in all directions, drenching the driveway in light, for maximum effect. It braked sharply in front of the porch.

  “Go, go, go!” Hunter yelled into the radio, although there was really no need. The third man who had been clinging to the side of the 4x4 was already halfway to the front door. The driver ran after him, battering ram at the ready. In a couple of seconds they’d be inside, and in less than half a minute it would all be over. And he wouldn’t even have to get out of his seat.

  Suddenly he detected movement at one corner of the building. The headlights were shining on a large man who was holding a gun in both hands.

  Hunter pressed the button on his radio, but before he had time to call out a warning his man up on the porch had opened fire. Shit, that better not be Janus.

  Hunter opened the car door and jumped out. He drew his pistol and aimed toward the corner where the large man had disappeared.

  “Enemy down, breach the door! Go, go!” Hunter yelled into his microphone. The door gave way as the battering ram smashed the lock. At that moment he heard another powerful engine roaring up the driveway toward the house.

  • • •

  Sarac saw the two men go around the corner of the house, heading for the unlit veranda. White camouflage clothing, protective goggles, and balaclavas. They were clutching their weapons with both hands. As shooting broke out at the front of the house the men began to run straight at him.

  Sarac drew his pistol in a single, smooth movement and fired off two shots. He realized instantly that he had aimed far too high.
The sound of the pistol going off was deafening and made his ears ring.

  The men threw themselves down on the snow and returned fire. The bullets shattered the old veranda windows, showering him with razor-sharp shards of glass.

  Something hit Sarac’s forehead. He put a hand to his face and felt blood, and quickly retreated into the hall. Molnar was yelling from the staircase and he stumbled in that direction. There was a crash from the front door, the sound of wood splintering. Then two shots from Molnar’s gun. In the background came the roar of another car engine.

  • • •

  “This is Leader, heads up!” Hunter yelled into his microphone. “We’ve got company!”

  He spun around as headlights lit up the driveway behind them and the sound of the engine got even louder. Hunter realized that his plan was in serious danger. But he wasn’t about to give up now, he wasn’t going to let the thought of failure enter his head.

  A dark van careered into the turning circle in front of the house. Its headlights dazzled Hunter. He hesitated for a couple of seconds, then fired two shots directly at the vehicle’s windshield. The van kept coming. Hunter fired again, peppering the windshield with little white holes. The sound of the engine was still getting louder, rising to a howl.

  Hunter threw himself aside, straight into the snow. A moment later the van smashed into the back of the 4x4.

  • • •

  “Upstairs!” Molnar yelled. Sarac obeyed at once. From the living room he could hear glass crunching under heavy boots, then several small thuds as something bounced across the floor.

  “Stun grenade!” Molnar roared from the foot of the stairs.

  Even though Sarac was prepared, even though he was facing away from the hall and had his eyes screwed shut, he was almost knocked off his feet when the stun grenade exploded. The blast sucked the air from his lungs, and the flash of light dazzled him through his tightly closed eyelids. He tripped on the top step and fell flat on the landing. He rolled over and aimed his pistol at the stairs.

  Molnar forced his way past him and staggered into the corridor. Sarac thought he could see a white silhouette on the stairs and let off a couple of shots. The ringing in his head meant he hardly heard the sound of his own gun going off.

  He tried to snake backward into the corridor, then got to his knees and blinked hard a few times. Even before he looked around, he knew where Molnar’s gun was pointing. Straight at his head.

  • • •

  Hunter rolled over in the snow, aiming his gun at the crashed van. The engine was silent now, and a column of white steam was rising from the hood. The collision was so hard that the 4x4 had been shunted forward almost seven feet, and its front bumper had gone through the wall of the little outhouse.

  Hunter could hear shouting from inside the van, then the sound of a sliding door being opened. Several burly men jumped out. At least two of them were carrying rifles. Hunter fired but only managed one shot before his gun clicked. Out of ammunition. Fuck!

  He released the empty cartridge as he tried to pull a new one from his belt. A man in a bulletproof vest holding a pump-action shotgun in his hands was heading straight for him. It was one of the Russians from the meeting at the gym. Hunter rammed the new cartridge into place, released the safety catch, and fired, all in the same fluid movement. The man staggered backward but still managed to fire one shot at Hunter. Burning pain flared up in one of Hunter’s legs and he rolled sideways, beneath the 4x4.

  There was more shooting from the direction of the van. Hunter couldn’t see exactly where the shots were coming from, but they seemed to be aimed at the porch. He could see feet, heavy boots, moving from beneath the vehicle, and tried to take aim at them. His hands were shaking and his heart was pounding hard. Failure was not an option.

  “Man down,” someone yelled in his earpiece. “Man down!”

  He felt for the microphone. This whole operation was rapidly going completely to . . .

  • • •

  Hell! Detective Inspector Josef Almlund was crawling through the snow, pressing his hand to his gut and feeling the blood running between his fingers. The bullet had hit him just below his bulletproof vest and must have caused a fuck-load of damage to his intestines before exiting through his back. He slumped back against the wall of the house, fumbling in the snow for his gun, but couldn’t find anything. A few moments later he realized that he must have pissed himself as well. Fuckfuckfuck . . .

  Five men came charging out of the forest in front of him, rushing across the snow. They were all wearing green and beige camouflage outfits that made them stand out clearly against the white background. In their hands they were clutching heavy assault rifles, all pointing at him.

  One of the men went up to Josef, kicked some snow at him, and said something to the others in a language that Josef thought was probably Serbian. Then he put his assault rifle to Josef’s head.

  Josef shut his eyes, thinking that this was one hell of a shitty way to die. None of this would have happened if he hadn’t listened to Peter Molnar. Hadn’t let his greed get the better of him.

  When he opened his eyes the men had gone around the house toward the turning circle. He felt his chest for his radio but discovered that the pocket on his shoulder was empty. The ear-shattering clatter of assault rifles made him cover his head with his arms.

  • • •

  Hunter looked out from beneath the 4x4. He could see the men’s backs as they rushed around the van. Blue bulletproof vests, tracksuits, a long plait of hair. He could hear the sound of their shotguns firing, followed by a pistol as someone up on the porch returned fire.

  The clatter of assault rifles came out of nowhere. The sound was deafening, bringing down snow from several of the nearest trees. One of the men from the van crumpled as the others threw themselves down and sought shelter.

  Hunter twisted to his right and could see heavy boots and camouflaged legs between him and the house. He fired almost without aiming, emptying his entire cartridge. He heard a cry as one of the men in camouflage slumped to his knees. Then the man turned his assault rifle toward him.

  A moment later one of the men from the van shot the man in the head. The shower of shots almost blew the man’s head from his shoulders.

  Pain suddenly broke through the veil of adrenaline. Hunter rolled over onto his back and looked down. On his left shin he could see blood and broken flesh clearly visible against the white of his trousers. He shut his eyes and almost threw up.

  “Man down!” someone was still yelling in his earpiece. “Man down!”

  The men with the assault rifles started firing again and seemed to be concentrating their fire on the men crouched behind the back of the van. Their bullets riddled the soft metal, turning it into a sieve. Hunter could hear the men behind the van howling in agony. He realized he had to get out of there, right away.

  “This is Leader,” he hissed into the microphone. “Abort mission. I repeat, abort mission!”

  A bullet punctured the tire next to him, and another drilled through the metal just an inch and a half away. He’d been spotted. Hunter tucked his arms in toward his body, kicked off against the underside of the vehicle with his intact leg, and rolled away from the house.

  The ground fell away beneath him as he tumbled out of control down the slope and in among the trees. He fell head over heels a couple of times, actually leaving the ground before hitting a tree trunk. The collision knocked the air out of him. He coughed and slowly tried to sit up. His nose and mouth were full of snow, and one side of his head stung like hell. He crawled up to a sitting position and took shelter behind a tree, then put a hand up to feel his ear. His fingers didn’t find what they were looking for. With an icy wrench in his gut, he realized that most of his outer ear was missing.

  The shoot-out up at the house was still going on. Protracted bursts from the assault rifles, growing more and more intense. Then a bang, so powerful that he felt it in his chest. It took him a few seconds to work out what
it was. A hand grenade.

  Hunter fumbled for his radio but discovered that his pocket had been torn from his vest. A fresh sound made him look up.

  A thickset man with a ponytail was rushing down the slope, just thirty to fifty feet away. He was taking long, stumbling strides, lost his balance, and tumbled over, before landing feetfirst in a snowdrift. But instead of rolling away the man sank into the snow almost up to his waist and just sat there. Hunter recognized him as another of the men from the meeting at the gym, Micke Lund, one of the bikers.

  Lund looked around and started when he saw Hunter pressed against a tree. Their eyes met.

  There were shouts from up at the house. In Serbian. “The fat bastard’s down there! Kill him!”

  The bullets from the assault rifles cut right through Lund’s bulletproof vest, going through his body and throwing up little bursts of snow behind him. The man’s eyes opened wide for a few seconds, and he stared at Hunter as if he were trying to say something. Then he slowly slumped forward.

  Hunter leaned his head back against the tree trunk and closed his eyes. His stomach clenched and for a few seconds he felt as if he were falling.

  FIFTY-NINE

  Sarac stared at Molnar. Then at the gun pointing at his head. His ears were still ringing and he was blinking hard to shake off the aftereffects of the stun grenade.

  He heard steps from the staircase and spun around, and just had time to see a camouflaged figure before Molnar fired. The man cried out and tumbled backward down the stairs.

  Sarac got to his feet and began to walk slowly down the corridor. Molnar was still aiming right at him. Sarac raised his own gun and pointed it at Molnar. He stopped so close that their barrels were almost touching.

  “You fucking idiot!” Molnar’s face was white. “What the hell have you done?”

  “Markovic, Lehtonen, and Sabatini,” Sarac interrupted. “You killed all three of them. At first you tried to make it look like there were three different killers. Then you tried to blame everything on Janus.”

  “You hardly gave me any choice,” Molnar snarled. “Someone had to clean up the mess you left behind. Hansen got what he deserved, you couldn’t let him blackmail you and took appropriate action. I was only doing the same as you, protecting the secret.”